by Stephen Paul
“You saved our lives, Mr. Bronson. There’s nothing to argue about, we’re going.” He left the building.
“Listen”
“No, Wendell has his mind made up and I agree with him. Unless you can outrun us, we’re going with you.” She tied the bandage around his leg. “You’re all bandaged...side, leg and shoulder. Any others I didn’t see?”
His face was pale and he knew he didn’t have a lot of time until he had to get the bullet still in him removed. “I haven’t time to argue with you, let’s go.” He stood up and almost stumbled. He put a hand on the table to balance himself.
“You can’t make it, you better lie down and I’ll take the bullet out now.” Becky moved toward him.
“No.” His eyes bored into her...cold and deadly. “I’m going now.” He straightened his back and walked out of the stage station building. He whistled and the palomino walked up dragging the reins on the ground. Gathering the reins in his hand, a groan escaped from him as he pulled himself into the saddle. He clucked with his mouth and started off at a walk, not looking back.
Wendell came around from the back leading two saddled horses. “Help me load the bodies on their horses." He tied his two to the hitching post, next to the outlaws' horses.
Becky and Wendell struggled picking up the dead men, throwing them over their saddles and lashing their hands and feet together. "Mount up, I’ll get my rifle and be right with you.” He went into the building and came out with a Winchester in his hand. He got into the saddle and together, leading the horses carrying the dead men, they turned toward the lone horseman slouched over in his saddle ridding in front of them - heading toward Laramie.
A few miles down the road, Becky trotted ahead of Wendell and pulled her horse next to Bronson. “Are you all right?” She asked trying to gauge how bad he hurt.
“I’ll make it. There’s two left I have to get.” She saw him grit his teeth through the pain.
They were silent as the miles fell behind them. Every now and then Becky would have him take some water. The lights of Laramie came into view when they crested a ridge. “A couple miles to go, I hope I haven’t missed them.”
“It didn’t sound to me like they were worried anyone would be following them after our place. I heard Sheehan tell the dead men to tidy up. He laughed when he rode off with the other man.”
“Did you know the other one?” Bronson took his pistol out and ejected some empty cartridges. He pulled some bullets from the cartridge loops on his gunbelt and fed them into the cylinder. He looked at her expectantly.
“No. I didn’t see him. He stayed outside. There was a hint of a southern accent when he spoke to Sheehan, though. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.” She turned in her saddle and watched Wendell leading the horses the dead men were hanging over. “I was afraid they were going to kill him.”
“Could have happened. They ambushed us and killed the men that were wounded. I’m just damn lucky I was able to start shooting at them or they’d have killed me too. Guess the three of us are lucky.”
The moon had dropped behind the western mountains when they entered the town. Bronson pulled up and waited until Wendell came abreast of them. “Take the bodies to the sheriff’s office, down the street there. Tell the deputy or the sheriff I’ll be at the Pronghorn Saloon arresting Sheehan and the other man if they’re there.” He tipped his hat to Becky. “I’m obliged for the help, ma’am. You too, Wendell.”
“Hold on now,” Wendell said. “We owe you our lives. If you wouldn’t have busted in and killed those outlaws, Becky and me would be dead now. I’m going with you.” He gave the reins of the other horses to Becky. “Here, take ‘em to the sheriff.”
Bronson held his side with one hand and looked from Becky to Wendell. “Okay, I haven’t got the time, or gumption to argue with you. Let’s go.” He nudged the horse and turned down the street. Wendell followed. They both reined in at the saloon. Two horses were tied at the hitching post in front and the lights were low inside the building.
“You give me a minute then come in and move to the side, not close where we could both be hit by one man. Understand?”
Wendell nodded and gripped the rifle stock hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he swallowed several times. “Move to the side, got it.”
“You never faced a man before.”
“I have Indians, but it's not the same thing.” Wendell ran a hand over his face. “Don’t worry.”
Bronson entered through the swing doors and stepped into a shadow to the side. A few oil lanterns were lit on the tables and behind the bar. A woman and man argued by near the stairway. They noticed the lawman and quit talking. The man spread his feet and shoved the woman aside. “Looking for someone?”
“If your name’s Sheehan. You’re under arrest for murder and train robbery.” He looked up at the balcony behind the woman and didn’t see anyone. “Get your hands up.”
“You’ve got the wrong man, mister.” the woman said. She moved toward Sheehan.
“Trudi” Sheehan drew his pistol and fired, missing Bronson’s head by mere inches.
Wendell ran in, the rifle held high. “What the hell...”
Bronson pushed Wendell away from him and fired his Colt twice. Sheehan’s chest seemed to have small puffs of dust kick up. His pistol dropped from his hands and he collapsed to the floor.
With the pistol out in front of him, Bronson crouched over and moved toward Sheehan. “Are you okay?” he asked Wendell without looking at him.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Is he dead?”
“I think so. You all right, ma’am?” Bronson put a toe into the side of the dead man and pushed. “He’s dead.”
“You killed my husband! He wasn’t the best, but he shouldn’t have been gunned down in a saloon.” She lowered herself to the floor and took the dead man’s hand.
“He’s with a gang that robbed a train and ambushed my posse. Where’s the other one?”
A shot came from the balcony. It hit Bronson in the upper chest spinning him around and throwing him to the floor, next to Sheehan. Wendell looked up and cocked his rifle. Another shot kicked wood up in front of Wendell’s feet. He jumped behind the bar and fired blindly in the direction of the gunshots.
Chapter Nineteen
When the woman started to get up, Bronson reached over and pushed her away. She fell the same time another bullet shattered a bottle on a table. Wendell fired again and Bronson was able to squeeze off several rounds. He heard footstep as they ran down the upstairs hallway then a door slam. Everyone heard the scrabbling down the roof and a minute later a horse take off in a run.
Wendell turned to go outside, levering a shell into his rifle.
“No!” Bronson commanded. “Don’t go out there. He might not a gone and be waiting. Help me up.” He groaned as Wendell and the woman lifted up – Wendell holding an arm and the woman with her arms around his chest.
“Oh my God,” she whispered holding one of her hands out in front of her, blood dripping off it. “You’re shot in the chest. Lay him on the table,” she told Wendell.
When they had him lying on two tables Wendell had put together, she went and kneeled down to the body of her husband. “He wasn’t a bad husband, even though he beat me once in a while.” She looked to Wendell. “What am I going to do now that he’s dead?”
Becky and a deputy came running into the saloon, a gun was in the deputy’s hand. He took in the scene in a glance. “Anyone else?”
“Yeah, but we think he rode off. Outside, I’ll go with you.” Wendell picked up his rifle again and headed outdoors with the deputy. “He took another bullet, Becky, better tend to him. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Hold on, the doc is on his way,” she said, checking the wounds.
The doctor arrived before Wendell and the deputy came back. He sent the Sheehan woman to the hotel to get two men so they could carry Bronson to his office.
“Is he going to make it?” Becky asked softly, staring intently at the doct
or.
“He’s got more holes in him than a home for a woodpecker family, but Bronson’s tough. We’ll just have to see.” Three men came in and under the direction of the doctor, made a gurney that they put Bronson in and carried him out of the saloon and down to the doctor’s office.
* * * *
Sunlight streamed in through a window and blinded him when he first woke up and opened his eyes. His whole body hurt and it seemed like most of it was bandaged. He saw Becky talking to the deputy next to the room’s door.
She saw him stir. “Good, you’re awake. How do you feel?”
“Okay. Earl,” he said to the deputy, “did you get him?”
“No, he was gone. Don’t know who it was either. Trudi Sheehan says she don’t know and didn’t care cause she had to bury her husband today.”
“Your husband, he all right?”
“Wendell...he’s fine and back at the stage stop. I stayed to see how you are.” Becky lowered her eyes and walked over to the bed and took his hand. “We owe you, you saved our lives, I know those men would have killed us.”
“No debt, you helped me and, uh, Wendell ...” His face was pale but still held a look of strength. “He did good, you can be proud.”
“I want you to know that you’re our friend. We want to stay in touch. You’ll always be able to ride the river with us, Mr. Bronson.”
“Only if you call me John. Get back to your husband and I’ll come out and see you both when I’m better. Thanks.” Bronson held his hand out and shook Becky’s. “This country needs more folks like you.”
* * * *
Sloan settled back in his seat. “John and I had been riding together but I’d taken some prisoners to Cheyenne the day before, or I’d been with him. Might of been different,” Sloan gazed out the window. “He made friends with the Strands, that for some reason, he did stay in touch with. Normally he pretty much stayed to himself.”
Jessica didn’t know why, but she felt like the decision to bring the fat, drinking, ex-lawman back to Rawlins was the right choice. Like John, he spoke with a quiet confidence and authority. “He didn’t murder anyone, I know it.” Her tone belayed the fear she felt.
“Listen Missy, I don’t care if John Bronson is guilty, or innocent, nobody’s going to lynch him. And for the record, I don’t think he’d murder anyone either.”
“We’re about there, shortly, what are you going to do?”
“Guess I’ll just mosey over to the sheriff’s office and see what’s going on.” He took his pack and untied one end and pulled the butt end of a stock out. “This is a twelve gauge scattergun. I’ll have her with me.”
“Rawlins, next stop,” the conductor announced while walking down the aisle. “Rawlins, next stop,”
The train came to a stop with a hissing of steam and the squeal of brakes on metal wheels. The sun had set a half hour before and the lights from the depot gave a comforting glow of welcome. No one was on the platform when Jessica and Sloan stepped from the passenger car.
“I’ve been here a couple of times and the jail’s that way.” He pointed up the street. “You go home now and I’ll see what’s going on with Bronson. Might be the whole thing is a wild goose chase.”
“I know how to shoot a rifle,” she said. Determination crossed her face. “I can help.”
“No Missy. This might be dirty work, you go home and if you tell me where you live, I’ll come by later and talk.”
Jessica told him how to get to the rooming house. She knew he wouldn’t change his mind, so she left and walked away toward her home.
* * * *
Sloan threw the strap of the pack over his shoulder and slung it so the butt of the shotgun was in easy reach of his right hand. He walked in shadows until he approached the jailhouse door. No lights were on outside the building, casting the jail in a dark blanket of darkness. He peered in the single window and saw one lantern, turned low, sitting on an empty desk. He couldn’t see the cells but thought they were through an open doorway behind the desk.
A group of eight men stood outside a saloon, speaking quietly among themselves. One of them carried a thick rope in his hand. The others had pistols, but none seemed to be out of their holsters. They were passing around a bottle and the gruff laughs could be heard.
Sloan put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door swung open on oiled hinges. He slipped in and closed the door behind him. The butt of the shotgun felt good when he pulled it out of the pack and dropped the pack to the floor.
“John...John Bronson,” he said, just above a whisper.
“That you, Chester?” The voice carried from the cells that were barely visible past the doorway.
“Yeah. I think there’s trouble coming. Bunch of men over by the saloon with a rope and drinking whiskey,” Sloan said.
“My gun is in the top drawer of the desk. I think the cell keys are around there too.”
Sloan pulled the gunbelt and Colt from the desk and held it in his hand. On top of the desk were the keys. “I’d say them keys are in a right convenient place.” He picked them up and went to the cell door.
When the door was unlocked and opened, Bronson came out and grabbed Sloan’s hand, giving it a hard shake. “Damn, it’s good to see you. Jessica found you, it appears.”
“Yeah, a determined lady you have.” He handed Bronson the gunbelt. “I don’t think I impressed her none. I’d had a little too much whiskey this morning.” Sloan went to the window and moved the curtain, looking toward the gathered group of men. “We ain’t got a lot of time before they come for you. What do you want to do?”
“No killing if we can help it,” Bronson said. He looked out the window with Sloan. He noticed a rifle rack against the wall that held two rifles and one sawed off double-barrel shotgun.
“Maybe I need a shotgun too.”
* * * *
Rusty Stratton saw the light go out in the jailhouse. “Hey, the light went out.” He nodded toward the jail. He took a swallow from the bottle and passed it over to another man. The rope in his other hand slapped against his leg. “Let’s string him up, supper’s waiting.”
Dust kicked up from their footsteps and the wind blew it down the street. Stratton opened the door and entered, the other seven right behind him.
“Damn, it’s dark in here. Someone light the lantern,” Stratton said. He put his hand out and felt the top of the desk. A match was handed to him and it flared when he scrapped the head with his thumbnail. Every man watched him as he lifted the lantern glass and lit the wick. Light flooded the room.
“Stand easy and no one dies,” Sloan said, his voice had the sound of death in it. He stood to one side of the door with his shotgun leveled at the group of men. Bronson was on the other side of the door, the shotgun resting across his bent forearm. When he cocked the two hammers the click was louder than the swallowing of several of the men.
Sloan came up to Stratton. “Who put you up to this?”
“No one. We’re gonna hang a murderer,” Stratton said, his eyes darting from Bronson to Sloan. “Decided on our own.”
“I hate lynch mobs. Nothing but a bunch of cowards.” The butt of the shotgun slammed into the side of Stratton’s face, knocking him to the floor. Sloan kicked him in the side, making Stratton cry out in pain. Bronson had motioned to the other men to back against the wall, near the doorway to the cells.
Sloan grunted and knelt down on one knee next to Stratton. He picked Stratton’s head up by a hunk of hair. “I’m tried. You don’t tell me, I’m gonna bash your brains out here on the floor. He banged Stratton’s head to the floor. “Who put you up to it?” Blood ran down Stratton’s forehead and a broken tooth hung out over his lip. His eyes were wide with fear. Sloan pulled the stock of the shotgun back until it was even with his ear. “I ain’t got the patience anymore, getting too old.” He started to bring the stock down when Stratton yelled.
“Don’t! Please, God. It was Waldrip and Hadleman. They told us he’d killed three men in col
d blood and he oughta be strung up.” His hands cradled his face.
“I think they paid you.” Sloan made a downward movement with the shotgun butt.
“All right! Fifty dollars each. But we don’t go for no murderers anyway. The money didn’t make no difference.”
“Yeah, real brave. String up a man before he’s had his day in court. All of you get in them cells.” Sloan motioned again with the shotgun. Stratton got up and with the others moved into the jail cells. Bronson closed the door and locked it. He left the key in and with a kick of his boot, snapped it off, the head still in the lock.
“How’re we getting out of here?” one of the men asked.
“You better be thankful you’re still alive,” Bronson said. “Let’s go,” he told Sloan. They went to the front door and each stood to the side. Sloan reached over and opened the door with his outstretched arm. The deep bellow of a rifle shattered the night and a chunk of wood flew out of the desktop. They ducked as gunfire came in a volley inside the jail, striking the wall behind them and blowing the panes of glass out of the window.
“Get down!” Bronson yelled to the men in the cell.
“Waldrip, you think?” Sloan poked his head around the doorjamb and jerked it back when another round of gunfire started.
“Probably. I’m not staying inside, I got burned out last time,” Bronson said.
“How we getting out?” Sloan looked at the too few windows in the jailhouse.
“With firepower, Chester, with firepower,” Bronson had a chilling smile that showed his teeth. He hunched over and scuttled to the rifle rack and took two Winchesters out, checked to make sure they were loaded and handed one to Sloan.
"Hold your fire!" he yelled out the window. The shooting stopped.
"This is Sheriff Hadleman, come out with your hands up." The voice came from across the street, from the direction of the feed store. "You're under arrest for bustin' out of jail."
"A mob was gonna lynch me, Sheriff," Bronson yelled back.
"Well, nobody's going to hang you now, unless it's a judge. C'mon out."
"I don't think I can oblige you. For some reason I got the feeling there's a bullet waiting for me. Get the U.S. Marshal from Cheyenne up here and I'll let him arrest me." Bronson peered into the night trying to locate the sheriff and his men.
