by Chuck Tyrell
Stryker led the way into the Royal, where Dodge and Molly registered.
“Got a room at the Congress,” Dodge said.
“I’ll close it out,” Stryker said. “You two just get to your room and talk about what you’re gonna do now.”
Molly spoke for the first time since Dodge started hugging her. “Where’s Willy?” she asked.
“Willard took off,” Stryker said.
“He needs someone, Matt.” She looked up into Dodge’s face. “Dodge, could Willy come live at Miller’s Well? He saved me, Dodge. Without Willy, I’d have gone mad.”
Dodge and Stryker and Cousins all heard Molly say “Miller’s Well.” Dodge didn’t bother to hide the tears leaking from his eyes. “Of course, Molly darlin’, Willy is welcome.”
“Matt. Matt?” Molly said. “Find Willy, please.”
“You and Dodge just get up to your room. You’ll do better there, figuring out how to rebuild Miller’s Well. Ridges and Hale’ll want a stop there, for sure. I’ll go find Willard.”
Stryker still rode the livery’s palomino paint he’d rented to ride after Molly Miller. He untied it from the hitching rail and clambered aboard, cursing under his breath at the pains that hit his cracked ribs and battered legs. “Alright, paint. Let’s go see if we can find Mr. Willard Dent.”
Stryker joined the flow of traffic on Scott Street. Ordinarily, no one would have noticed, but the kepi Stryker wore instead of a bowler or a Stetson set him apart. People probably thought he was a misplaced rebel, and in a way, perhaps he was. He turned the same corner as Willard had taken, but the big man was nowhere in sight. Nor should he be, as nearly half an hour had passed since Willard Dent had taken leave of Molly after deciding he was no longer needed. But where would he go by himself? Chances are he’d never before been on his own. Would he know where to stop? Did he have money for lodging and food? Come to think of it, Stryker had never seen Willard handle a gun. He surely never wore one, and there was no rifle or shotgun in a saddle boot on his big mule.
But Stryker couldn’t find Willard Dent. He’d just disappeared. No rangy mule tied out front of any drinkery. No big blocky form to be seen on any of Tucson’s boardwalks. No Willard Dent. Stryker rode the streets of Tucson until it was too dark to see. He turned the palomino paint back to its owner at the livery stable. Saif whickered them moment Stryker entered the barn. “Be with you in a minute, old man,” Stryker called.
“’Bout time you was getting back,” Stephan the livery man said. “You owe me a eagle for renting the paint, for a stall for your black, and oats and hay. You starve that black horse? He’s been eating like he ain’t et for a month solid.”
Stryker forced a grin. “He’s an eater, alright. Much obliged for you taking good care of him.” He fished an eagle from the pocket inside his gunbelt. “The ‘mino’s a good horse, but I reckon you know that.”
“Harrump.” Stephan wasn’t displeased at Stryker’s complimenting his horse, but he wasn’t about to show it. “Just get that black half-stud outta here before I have to charge you for another day.” He almost chuckled.
Stryker took his time transferring his tack from the palomino paint to Saif. He hung his sawed-off Parker from the saddle horn, led Saif from the stall, and fixed the onside stirrup so he could mount.
“Caracortada?”
Stryker put his left boot back on the ground. “What do you want, Walker?” he said.
“You mind taking a paseo with me for a couple of minutes?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“You’ll see.”
Stryker shrugged. “Nothing better to do right now,” he said. “Lead on.”
“Walker rode the same three-color he’d had in Hell’s Trail, but the wiry horse looked as tough as the man who rode it. He turned the horse’s nose toward the Santa Catalina Mountains northeast of town. Stryker followed.”
They’d ridden nearly an hour past the outskirts of Tucson when Walker pulled up. He spoke quietly. “Over there,” he said.
In the dark, Stryker could make out the shape of a mule, head down and hipshot. He dismounted and dropped the reins, ground-tying Saif. Walker sat on his three-color and waited.
Closer, Stryker recognized the mule as the one Willard rode. “Willard? Willard Dent? It’s me. Matt Stryker. I’m coming in.”
The mule turned its head toward Stryker, but there was no sound.
“Willard?” Stryker moved closer as silently as his battered legs allowed. “Willard?” He sidled around a cholla, careful not to touch the “jumping” cactus, and into a small clearing. The mule stood on the far side, its head now up. It looked directly at Stryker. Willard Dent sat cross-legged under a palo verde not far from the big mule. His hands rested on his knees and his head hung as if he were unconscious, or asleep. Stryker strode to Willard’s side. “Willard? he said again. He put a hand on the big man’s shoulder. Willard turned and threw his arms around Stryker’s legs. He buried his face between Stryker’s knees and sobbed.
“What’m I gonna do? Pa’s gone. He allus told me what to do. Lee Roy and Finn was no good, Pa said, but he allus told me what to do right.” Willard sobbed harder.
Stryker said nothing. He patted the boy-man on the shoulder and waited for the sobs to subside. He knew Walker was out there somewhere watching, but he didn’t care.
The sobbing slowed to a stop. In a tiny voice Willard said, “What am I gonna do, mister? Can you tell me? Huh?” He cranked his big head back to look up at Stryker. “What am I gonna do?”
“Don’t you worry, Willard Dent,” Stryker said. “Missus Miller asked me to come and get you.”
“Missus? Why? We’uns treated her mighty bad.”
“I think she wants you to help her and Dodge build Miller’s Well back up again. Could you do that?”
Without a moon, the night was about as dark as nights can get, but Willard Dent’s face shone like a ray of sunshine. “Missus wants me to help?”
“She does.”
Willard lumbered to his feet and reached for the mule’s reins. “What’re we waitin’ on?” he said. “Missus wants me to help.” He stopped. “Mister Stryker, you wouldn’t be joshin’ me, wouldja?”
“No, son. Missus Miller’s waiting for you at the Royal Hotel.”
The ray of sunshine showed in Willard’s smile again. “Race ya to town,” he said.
Chapter Sixteen
Stryker paused on the hogback southwest of Miller’s Well. Two months had passed since Dodge and Molly Miller left Tucson with a wagon load of lumber, a good team of horses that they bought from Gill Steiner, and Willard Dent and Lige Carpenter riding along behind. The burnt remains of the station were gone. A blocky adobe building stood in its place, a veranda covered by a roof extension in front, with a sign that read MILLER’S WELL hanging from its rafters. A dozen acres had been put to the plow and sprouts of wheat and alfalfa showed. A barbwire fence surrounded the field, probably to keep the mule deer out. Stryker clucked at Saif and they made their way down the long incline to the stage stop.
Dodge Miller stood under the sign cradling a long Greener 12-gauge in his left arm when Stryker rode up.
“Long time no see, Dodge. Why the scattergun?”
Dodge grinned. “Hello to you, too, Matthew Stryker. You’ll not find me without my Greener these days. Who can tell when another bunch like the Dents will ride in?”
“Dodge?” Molly’s voice came from inside. “Who is it, Dodge?”
“Matt Stryker, Molly darlin’.”
“What! Matt!” Molly came running from inside the stage stop. “Matt. It’s been forever. Get down. Good beans on the stove and sourdough in the oven. Coffee’s hot.”
“Well. All right. I could do with a cup of coffee.” Stryker dismounted.
“Howdy, mister.” Willard Dent came around the side of the adobe station. “Seen you ridin’ in. Should I care for Saif maybe? Give him some oats, maybe?”
“Howdy, Willard. Are you pulling your weight around he
re?”
“Matt, you never saw a man work so hard and get so much done as Willard Dent,” Dodge said. “Me shot up and all, we’re mighty lucky Willard agreed to come and live at Miller’s Well.”
Stryker nodded. “Good. Glad to hear that.” He handed Saif’s reins to Willard. “A bit of a rubdown, and a bait of oats, if you’ve got some to spare. Please.”
Willard looked to Dodge for permission.
“Go ahead, Willard,” Dodge said.
“Yessir, mister. Right away.” He led Saif off toward the corral.
Molly rushed back to the kitchen and Dodge held the door open for Stryker. “Good to have you visit, Matt,” he said.
“I’m tracking a bounty,” Stryker said. “Seems Bill Floyd is still loose and he’s worth five thousand to the federal government. Ness Havelock gave me expense money for the hunt, so me and Saif figured to start looking where Floyd was last seen—Globe City.”
“Once a bounty hunter, always a bounty hunter,” Dodge said with a chuckle.
Stryker wiped the tears from his face as Molly brought in the coffee. “Sure smells good, Molly darlin’,” he said.
“I’m not your ‘darlin’, Matt Stryker.” She blushed.
Matt gave her a sharp look. Then he made the grimace that served his scarred face for a smile. “T’would be good to see some little Dodge Millers livening up this stage stop,” he said.
“We hope so,” Dodge said. “We truly do.”
Molly ducked into the kitchen, and Willard Dent burst through the front door. “Mister. Mister. That man’s a coming. I seen him.”
“What man?”
“That one what came into the cave with them ones what wanted to find my Pa’s gold.”
“Someone from Alamo?”
“Oh no, mister. He’s a good man what come with the ones what brung the gold to the city.”
“Who is he?”
“We’uns dunno his name, mister.”
“Matt Stryker! You hear me?” The shout came loud and strong through the open front door.
“Borrow your Greener,” Stryker said to Dodge. He scooped up the big 12-gauge as he got to the door and eared its hammers Back. “Hello, Upton,” he said. “What brings you to Miller’s Well?”
“You,” Upton said. “We ain’t never settled on who’s better, you or me.” He held a Winchester, cocked and ready, with its muzzle pointing in Stryker’s direction.
“You’re a dead man, Upton, if you try gunplay,” Stryker said.
“You are dead,” said Lige Carpenter. He stood at the corner of the stage stop, a Winchester ’76 at his shoulder.
“Well, well, well.” Upton spat tobacco juice into the dust. “Stacked deck, is it?”
“Just making sure things stay on an even footing,” Carpenter said. “What should I do with this jehu, Matt?”
Stryker rubbed his face with his right hand. The fingers worked well and the broken arm seemed quite well healed. “Tell me, Upton. You seem rearing to pull a trigger on me, but are you willing to meet me, bare knuckles, here in front of the Miller’s Well Station? You knock me down and out and you can tell the world that you bested Matt Stryker. How’d that be?”
Upton swallowed hard and flexed his shoulders. He took stock of himself. Legs strong as tree stumps under a torso as round and tough as a barrel. Fists like small hams. Hulking shoulders from hours and days of wielding a pick in the mines at Bisbee. Then he took stock of Stryker. Broad of shoulder, trim of waist. Long-legged. Feet enclosed in low-heel Wellingtons. Upton remembered that not long ago, his right arm had been in a sling. A ton or more of rocks had fallen on him, they said. Stryker’s lucky to be alive, they said. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Right here in front of the stage stop, I’ll do it.”
“Give your hardware to Lige,” Stryker said. He unbuckled his own gunbelt and held it and the Greener out to Carpenter.
Upton grinned, but there was something wicked about it. He let the hammer of his Winchester down, reversed it, and held it out to Carpenter by the barrel. As soon as Carpenter took the rifle, Upton took off his gunbelt and gave it to Carpenter as well.
“What’s going on?” Dodge Miller stuck his head out of the front doorway.
“Me and Upton here’re gonna have a bout of fisticuffs right here in front of your station, Dodge. Seems he’s just gotta find out who’s the better man, and the only thing he understands is fighting.”
“Matt. Matt. You shouldn’t. Those ribs. Those terrible bruises on your legs. Your arm . . . .” Molly Stodd next to Dodge, her hands to her face, her eyes wide as a frightened doe’s.
Stryker gave Molly a smile. “Molly darlin’. A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. Upton could make it a gunfight, but he’s man enough to go at it with fists. I’ve gotta respect him for that.” Stryker unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. “No reason to dirty a new shirt,” he said. He handed the shirt and his gray Stetson to Dodge Miller. He didn’t bother with his boots. They were flat-heeled Wellingtons of soft leather, rough side out. Almost as good as moccasins.
“Upton, you gonna fight in what you got on?” Carpenter said.
Upton watched Stryker warm up by shadow boxing. Then he too took off his shirt. “Here.” He tossed the shirt to Carpenter.
“Willard,” Carpenter called. “Can you take Mister Upton’s nag to the corral, please?”
“Yessir, mister. I can do that.” Willard came out from the station house. He sidled around, staying close to the wall, until he could get a hand on the reins of Upton’s horse. “Come on, nag,” he said. The horse followed Willard like they’d been in the same herd all their lives.
Carpenter took the hardware and shirts into the station house. He came right back out and took over. “This here fight’s gonna be fair,” he said. “No kickin’. No gougin’. No buttin’. If a man goes down, the othern stands back ‘til he gets up. When one or t’other cain’t get up, the man left standing wins.” With his heel, he made two lines across the stage road, about ten yards apart. “You all stay between these here marks. Fair enough?”
“Fair,” Stryker said.
“Fair,” Upton said.
Stryker stepped out into the road and turned to face Upton. He’d worked with prizefighters in Silver City, and he figured he could win he kept out of Upton’s reach. His bruised left knee would not allow him to dance about, but perhaps he could move quickly enough.
Upton grinned that wicked grin again. His big arms hung at his sides, relaxed. He figured Stryker for a gunman, not an alley fighter.
Stryker crossed the space between them and rocked Upton’s head back with a stiff right to the cheekbone. Before Upton could react, Stryker put his shoulder behind a left to Upton’s midriff.
Upton aimed a punch at Stryker, but he’d moved, circling the larger man. Upton turned to face him. Then Stryker threw another right jab that smashed Upton’s lips against his teeth. But this time Upton’s roundhouse right caught Stryker a glancing blow that staggered him. But he still circled, trying to keep Upton off balance.
An opening came. Stryker filled it with a left hook that opened a cut on Upton’s cheekbone. He growled, frustrated, then lunged at Stryker, trying for a clinch. He sought to get his arms around Stryker, to get him in a back-breaking hold.
Stryker pivoted, letting Upton slide by. He hit him in the kidney with a stiff rabbit punch. Upton grunted as he went to his knees. Stryker stepped back and waited, the bruises on his legs still protesting. Upton clambered to his feet.
Stryker couldn’t help taunting Upton. “Come on, big fighter. You thought I’d be easy, didn’t ya? Not so easy, is it?”
Upton roared his rage and rushed at Stryker. A widespread arm caught Stryker across the chest and the two men crashed to the ground. A cloud of dust rose around them. Stryker rolled away, not wanting to get into any kind of a clinch. He got to his feet first, and met Upton with a sharp jab as he rose, then followed the punch with a hook that rocked Upton’s head back. Upton threw a punch of his own, and Stryker la
ughed.
“You got your share of guts, Garth Upton,” he said, and hit him again.
Upton staggered, then threw a punch of his own. “You’ll do yourself, Stryker,” he said.
From that moment, the two men stood toe to toe, slugging it out, loving the contest, beyond hate, beyond anger, beyond even dislike. Two tough men, contesting the other’s strength and stamina. Stryker’s scarred face began to swell. Upton’s split cheek leaked blood. But both fighters had huge smiles on their faces as they ducked and punched, weaved and smashed at each other, heaving and gasping for breath.
Upton’s big right hand caught Stryker on the side of the head and he went sprawling. Upton waited, head down and gasping, rocking back and forth like a wounded grizzly. Stryker struggled to his feet. He stepped back, spread his legs, and sent a punch to the side of Upton’s jaw. He went down. Upton slowly clambered to his hands and knees, then struggled to his feet.
Lige Carpenter shoved the barrel of Dodge Miller’s Greener shotgun between the two fighters. “I reckon this’s gone far enough,” he said. “At this rate, you’re just gonna keep going until one of you falls dead. Enough is enough.”
Stryker’s lower lip was split and puffed up, but he still managed a half grin. “You’re good and tough, Garth Upton, a lot more man than I had you figured for. You’re welcome to tell anyone you want that you fought Matthew Stryker to a standstill. And I’ll back you up on it.”
Upton nodded and lowered his fists. “You’re not so bad yourself, Stryker. I reckon you’ll do.”
“Let’s us have a cup of Molly’s good coffee,” Stryker said, “What say?”
Molly Miller stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Don’t you brawlers come in here until you’ve washed and cleaned up proper. There’s soap and water behind the station. And wipe good. That’s what that flour sack hanging there is for.”
