Colorado Crossfire (A Piccadilly Pulishing Western Book 15)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Bigelow nodded. “C’mon, boys. We heard about Foyt back there – among other things. Simmer down a mite. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Howdy, Russ,” Lefty said.

  “Howdy, Lefty. Howdy, Kiowa.”

  The four went over to the Crescent Moon Saloon and dismounted. Going inside, they took a table on the far end of the room making sure they all had an unobstructed view of the place. There was always the possibility of some crazy trying to horn in on gunpowder glory, and back shooting would be as good a way as any. Russ went up to the bar and came back with a bottle and four glasses. He set them down and settled in.

  Bigelow, not standing on ceremony, poured himself a drink and gulped it down. “The way I figger it, you got about five or six more to go.”

  “Yeah,” Lefty said. He ticked off the others on his fingers. “We still got to get Ben Clackum, Pud Barlow, Craw Mindon, Bill Hays, and Milo Paxton.”

  “Don’t forget Orly,” Kiowa reminded him.

  “Orly’s a half-wit,” Lefty said. “I think he got dropped on his head when he was a baby or something.”

  “Maybe he got kicked in the head by a mule,” Kiowa suggested.

  Bigelow didn’t care if Orly Hays was feeble-minded or not. “You’d still better watch out for him,” he warned the duo. “He’ll do anything that Milo or Bill Hays tells him. And that means ornery things.”

  Kiowa nodded. “Fellers like Orly has big medicine in them.”

  “Crazy Injun!” Lefty scoffed.

  “It’s true,” Kiowa insisted. “The spirits is inside ’em and gives ’em special powers.”

  “He’s a dumb shit that ain’t got a lick o’ sense,” Lefty said.

  Kiowa leaned toward Lefty, the expression on his face serious. “You listen here, you dumb-ass Irisher! There’s a wisdom in them kinda fellers that can come out at odd times. In the Injun tribes, such folks is treated with considerable respect.”

  “You still be careful,” Bigelow emphasized.

  “That’s good advice,” Wilson said. “Jim here’s right. Orly may be silly as a newborn pup, but he’ll do anything that Milo or Bill tells him.”

  “Anyway,” Bigelow said taking another stiff drink. “What’s your plans?”

  “I was thinking we should go over to Pan-And-Weep,” Lefty said.

  “Where’s that?” Bigelow asked.

  “It’s a mining camp on Blackfoot Creek,” Kiowa said. “It’s littler than El Campo but Milo’s boys like it because it’s higher up and safer for ’em.”

  “They can get likker and women,” Lefty pointed out. “But neither at Pan-And-Weep is worth much.” Wilson finished his drink. “Listen, fellers, I got an old pal around here someplace. It’s been a coon’s age since I seen him. I think I’ll go see if I can find him while we’re here.”

  “Go ahead, Russ,” Bigelow said. “Me and the boys’ll chew the fat for a spell.”

  Wilson walked out the door at the same time another man came into the saloon. He glanced around until he spotted Lefty and Kiowa, then he came over to their table. “Howdy, boys.”

  “Howdy,” Lefty said.

  “We just brung in them eight dead fellers,” the stranger said. ‘You had quite a battle out there.”

  “Yeah,” Lefty said. “Tip Tyler and Selby Turner, both.”

  Bigelow interrupted quickly. “Them two owed my pards here some money and wouldn’t pay up. Things got nasty.” He didn’t want everyone to know what their true mission was.

  “Jumping jackrabbits.” the man exclaimed. “Did all eight of ’em owe you?”

  Lefty, taking the hint from Bigelow, nodded. “And that’s enough said about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the stranger said. He started to walk away then stopped. “Remind me to never borry no money from you fellers.” He hurriedly left.

  “I been wanting to ask you,” Bigelow said. “Who was them others? Pals o’ Tip and Selby?”

  Kiowa shook his head. “They was Jack Dougherty and his pards.”

  “We knowed him when he was a soljer back when we was scouting for the cavalry,” Lefty said. “He deserted while we was out on a campaign against the Sioux.”

  “He thought we’d turn him in,” Kiowa said.

  Wilson returned. He walked up to the table and sat down. “I couldn’t find my ol’ pal.”

  “It’s hard to keep track o’ folks up here,” Kiowa said. “They move around a lot.”

  “Speaking of moving around,” Lefty said, “I got a hankering to get outta this town.”

  Bigelow laughed. “That’s prob’ly a good idea. You might end up burning it down.”

  Kiowa grinned. “You heard all about El Campo, huh?”

  “We sure did,” Wilson said. “What about that avalanche that wiped out the trail between Luckville and there? Did you two jaspers have anything to do with that?”

  “We was jumped and throwed some dynamite,” Lefty said.

  Bigelow looked over at Wilson. “I told you they done it.”

  “Sometime, after all this is over, I want both o’ you to take a while and tell me about all this shit and bad news you cause,” Jim said.

  “Sure,” Lefty agreed. “But right now, we’re on our way to Pan-And-Weep.”

  “I’m anxious to hit the trail, too,” Kiowa added. Both stood up without further conversation and walked across the saloon and out the door.

  “I hate to think that this whole episode still has a ways to go,” Wilson said.

  “Somehow I feel sorry for the folks that live in Pan-And-Weep,” Bigelow said as he poured himself another drink.

  ~*~

  The campfire crackled loudly. The thick smoke curled up to the tree limbs above and drifted heavily around the campsite. Kiowa finished off the last of his beans and looked at his friend.

  “You’re real thoughtful, ain’t you’?” Kiowa asked.

  “Huh?”

  “I said you’re real thoughtful, ain’t you?”

  “I been thinking on what Phineus said,” Lefty remarked. “You know, ’bout not going back to Fort Sill.”

  “I been turning it over in my mind, too,” Kiowa admitted. “What’s your ideas on the matter?”

  “I’m tempted to go back East and live in a mansion,” Lefty said. “It’d be grand to have a fancy lady there and go to the opry houses in Philadelphia or New York.”

  “You reckon they’re as big as Wichita?” Kiowa asked.

  “Prob’ly,” Lefty said. “At least that big. Maybe more like Denver though.” He thought a moment. “I’d say for sure that they ain’t smaller’n Wichita and if they’re bigger’n Denver, not by much.”

  “I don’t see how any place could be bigger’n Denver,” Kiowa said. “There wouldn’t be no reason for it.”

  “You figger you’d like to live in one of them Eastern cities?” Lefty asked.

  Kiowa shook his head. “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Looky here, Lefty, I ain’t a white man – at least not all of me,” Kiowa said. “The more I think o’ this getting rich, the less I like it.”

  “Hell. You thought it was a grand idea when we left Fort Sill,” Lefty said.

  “That was the white part,” Kiowa said. “But the Injun part don’t want no part of it.”

  “Will you please explain yourself?” Lefty asked.

  “I learned a lot from my grandpa when I was a tad,” Kiowa said. “He was a warrior and a hunter like a Kiowa is supposed to be. He learned me that the land and the people is all one thing. We live with the land and hunt the animals on it because we’re all part of it. And that means the water and the sky and ever’thing.”

  Lefty shrugged. “So what’s that got to do with being rich?”

  “You’re only supposed to take from the land what you need,” Kiowa said. “Like when there was a big buffalo hunt. My people didn’t go out and kill all of ’em just ’cause they was there or ’cause it was fun.”

  “You mean like white folks did,” Lefty sai
d.

  “Yeah. We took what we needed and let the rest go,” Kiowa said. “That way, the next time the people was hungry, there was them buffalo still around to hunt.”

  “Again, let me ask you what that’s got to do with being rich?”

  “No man needs to be rich to be happy,” Kiowa said. “Things should be so a feller takes what he needs and leaves the rest for others or until he needs ’em again.”

  Lefty felt very wise. “The white man’s world ain’t set up like that, Kiowa. We got big business and railroads and all sorts o’ things that’s complicated. Part o’ that is making money so’s you can have a nice life.”

  “All I want,” Kiowa said with a tone of finality in his voice, “is a farm at Anadarko, some cattle, and maybe marry a purty girl from the tribe.”

  Now Lefty was alarmed. “Are you thinking on marriage?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Lord above!” Lefty exclaimed.

  “I don’t want to talk about it no more,” Kiowa said solemnly.

  “Me either!” Lefty said.

  They were silent for several long moments before Kiowa spoke again. “I’m a Injun. I know that more’n ever now since we left Fort Sill.”

  “Sure.” Lefty wanted to change the subject. “I been thinking on that gunfight we had back there in Luckville.”

  “What about it?” Kiowa asked.

  “You know something? We’re turning into gunslingers.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure. We been hired to fight. Not to guard nothing or hunt for game, but to fight other men,” Lefty said.

  “You’re right.”

  “We’re gonna get a reputation outta this,” Kiowa said. “That can mean that other fellers will come gunning so’s they can be knowed as the ones that shot down Lefty McNally and the Kiowa Kid.”

  “All the more reason to get back to Anadarko,” Kiowa said.

  “If we don’t get rich and get outta the West, someday some young gunman is gonna shoot us down,” Lefty said. “So it won’t do you no good to go back there and get a farm. They’ll find you through your name.”

  “I’ll use my Injun name,” Kiowa said.

  “You got an Injun name?” Lefty asked.

  “O’course I do,” Kiowa said. “What do you think? My people call me the Kiowa Kid?”

  “I never thought on it,” Lefty said. “What’s your moniker?”

  “Gui-Tainte,” Kiowa answered.

  “What’s it mean?”

  “None o’ your damn business.”

  “Suit yourself,” Lefty said. Then he added, “Crazy Injun!” He stared at his friend. “What’d you see in that vision o’ yours back at Dawson’s Meadow?”

  “Injun stuff,” Kiowa said.

  Lefty, thinking about getting gunned down and Kiowa getting married and buying a farm in Anadarko, was suddenly unhappy. He rolled over and pulled a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags.

  “I’m gonna get good’n drunk,” he announced.

  “I’ve heard you say that before,” Kiowa said.

  “Yeah? Well, this ain’t the last time either!”

  “Want some comp’ny?” Kiowa asked.

  Lefty grinned at him. “You’re my pard, ain’t you?”

  “In thick and thin,” Kiowa said.

  Lefty raised the bottle. “Here’s to whatever’s in store for us.”

  Fifteen

  Mae Paxton pulled the last shirt off the clothesline and dropped it in her basket. Orly, who stood beside her, picked up the load and carried it back to the cabin. Inside, cleaning pistols and carbines, Mae’s husband Milo Paxton and brother Bill Hays glanced up at their entrance.

  “Put it over on the kitchen counter, Orly,” Mae said. “You been a lotta help.”

  Orly smiled shyly and did as he’d been told. After dropping the load, he went over to sit on his bed.

  Mae looked at the two men. “Being helpful is something a lotta folks around here ain’t too good at.”

  Patton slipped the cylinder back into the big Colt and locked it into place. “A man’s got to keep his iron in top shape.”

  Bill Hays grinned. “Are you nagging us to do chores after we been busting our backs on that gold claim, Mae?”

  “I guess not,” she said. “You deserve special treatment, I’ll warrant that. Good meals is something you got coming. Along with getting your washing did.”

  “You’re gonna be spoiling us with all that fussing around, Mae.”

  “I want y’all already used to wearing clean clothes when we move into a nice town,” Mae said. “You ain’t gonna be able to walk around like tramps if we live somewheres like Helena.”

  Patton, knowing that Helena was one of the last places he could ever go, quickly said, “That ain’t the only town to live in, Mae.”

  “It’s the nicest one close to here,” Mae said.

  “I’d like to get outta this part o’ the country someday,” Paxton said. “Think on it.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mae said.

  “And don’t forget well be wanting a good doctor for Orly,” Hays reminded her.

  “That’s right,” Paxton said. He stood up. “I think I’ll go for a ride. I been sitting around too long.”

  Mae looked at him. “Are you getting them restless stirrings again?”

  “Not now,” Paxton said. “But I’ll be hankering to get back to the goldfields afore long.” He winked at Hays.

  “Yeah. Me, too,” his brother-in-law said.

  “You want to ride up to that pond for some fishing?” Paxton asked.

  Hays shook his head. “Nope. I ain’t in a stirring mood right now.”

  Paxton looked around. “Where’s Willie? Maybe he’ll go with me.”

  “He’s tending to chores with Daddy,” Mae said. “And don’t you bother him none ’til he’s finished. I have enough trouble keeping the boy at his work without you coming back and spoiling him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Paxton replied with a smile. “I ain’t looking for no trouble. I’ll do whatever you say!”

  Mae smiled at him. Over the years she’d known and been married to Milo Paxton she had learned to both love and trust him deeply.

  ~*~

  Milo Paxton had originally come from Miller County, Arkansas. The son of an itinerant widower preacher, Milo and his brothers lived on an uncle’s farm while their father made his numerous rounds tending to his rustic, far-flung congregation. When the Rev. Ezekiel Paxton returned home for visits, it was no time of joy for his children, however. All their sins and transgressions were duly reported by their aunt.

  The father, a zealot and no believer in “spare the rod and spoil the child,” administered severe physical punishment to his sons. Lashed bloody with switches, the boys would endure punishment until they confessed their sins and begged for forgiveness.

  The most boisterous son, Milo, was always the one in the greatest amount of trouble. There was no prank or mischief serious enough to make him think of the consequences. As a result, he received almost twice as much castigation as the other boys. Because of this, Milo was eventually given additional lessons in his preacher father’s tough Christian ethics. He was forced to pray constantly for deliverance from his sins, while being given nothing to eat but bread and water for long stretches at a time. In addition, he had to do extra chores that caused him to work late into the night. Rather than break his spirit, it only enforced his rebellious attitude. Naturally, this caused him to get into even more trouble which brought about additional punishment.

  It was not surprising that finally he could no longer endure his miserable existence. At the age of fifteen, he ran away from home never to return.

  He was so frightened of his father’s wrath that he spent months on the move, stopping only to work a day or two in various places before resuming his travels northward. Always his imagination was filled with fearful pictures of his father tracking him down, as he continued his flight to freedom.

  Finally, he crosse
d over Caddo Mountain, dropping down into the flatter country and moving on until he reached the town of Fort Smith on the Arkansas River. Being a farm boy most of his life, he felt uncomfortable in town. It was too bustling and noisy for him even though he did get a job in a feed and grain store. The employment paid him enough money to eat one meal a day while providing a bunk out back for sleep.

  But Milo was a large lad and needed more sustenance than a scanty supper after long hours of hard work. He knew if he found employment on a farm, he might not get much in the way of cash money, but at least they’d feed him decently. Milo took leave of the feedbag toting chores and set out to visit neighboring farms to hire on as a hand. It didn’t take the muscular boy long to find a place.

  A .J. Tomlinson had a nice spread south of Van Buren. With three daughters and no sons, he had serious need for a strong male to help out after his other hired hand kept getting thrown in jail for drunkenness. This bright-eyed boy named Milo was too young to have developed any bad habits with liquor and was willing to work himself to near exhaustion for room and board.

  The relationship between the skinflint employer and naive young hired hand went along quite well for two years. By then, Milo was nearly eighteen and stood a shade under six-feet tall with a muscular build brought on by hard physical labor and plenty of plain but nutritious food. It might be imagined that if there were any conflicts between the two, it would be over the dearth of money paid for Milo’s labors. But the trouble came in the guise of A.J.’s fourteen-year-old daughter Betty Nell.

  Betty Nell was mature for her age. When she’d first laid eyes on Milo Paxton, she was only twelve. By the time she was fourteen, she had womanly stirrings in her body. Being more than a bit bold and brash, she finally made her affections – or, to better describe it, her availability – known to Milo. The youngster, now at an age when many of his peers were not only married but keeping a youthful wife in a near permanent state of pregnancy, responded in a natural and passionate way.

  They began having trysts in the barn between supper and evening chores. The haypile was their love nest as they enjoyed a full winter, all spring, and most of one summer making love two or three times a week.