Six-Gun Law

by Jory Sherman

  Faron daydreamed himself into aloneness. When he snapped out of his reverie and turned around to look back at the wagons, all he saw was an empty trail. He muttered under his breath and envisioned a broken wheel, a lame mule, or some such that must have halted the train.

  “Ho, Willis,” he called, and his voice seemed to fall back on him, swallowed up by the silence.

  Faron turned his horse and started back to where the wagons should be. Then he stopped. He heard something, something that chilled his blood as if his veins had been filled with freezing water. A thud, then another. A crack that sounded like a bone breaking. A muffled cry, a stifled scream. More thudding sounds, and a squishing sound as if someone had smashed a melon with a ten-pound maul.

  He rode back a few yards, and that’s when he noticed a gap in the trail and realized that he had passed through a depression without realizing it. He halted a few yards from the rim of what he knew now was a gully and waited, listening. He heard something odd that took him several moments to decipher. The sound was like a series of whispers, or gasps, whick, whick, whoop, followed by snick, snick, then a slight jingling noise as if someone was jiggling a leather pouch full of brass rings. When he realized what it was, he slowly pulled his rifle from its boot, then slowly levered a round into its chamber. The sound of the metallic mechanism was drowned by louder sounds that he could easily identify, hoofbeats. Rapid hoofbeats that quickly faded away.

  He eased his horse over the top rim of the gully and looked down into the center of it, some thirty or forty yards away. Faron could scarcely believe his eyes. The horror of what he saw froze his throat as if it were being clutched by an icy hand. He stared, not believing his eyes, and let his mind start putting pieces together, the sounds he had heard, the objects that now stood out in relief under the burning Kansas sun.

  The cut traces lay scattered like flattened dead snakes in front of the wagons. Willis hung from the buckboard seat, a gaping red gash in his throat. His wife hung over the opposite side, her head dangling from a long grisly tendon, her hair obscuring her face.

  Faron rode down into the gully, past the first wagon, dreading what he would see. There was an eerie silence that made his skin prickle on the back of his neck. More cut traces, the wagon tongue nothing more than a long skinned pole, angling into the ground. Next to the wagon, splayed on his back, lay Frank Eakins, the front of his skull caved in, his face drenched with blood, broken white teeth jutting out of the gelatinous mass. His privates had been cut off. There was a ragged tear in his trousers at the crotch. Then the last wagon, where Faron’s stomach swirled with bile and his throat constricted as he fought to keep from vomiting.

  Betty Morton lay slumped on the seat, the top of her head caved in as if from a single blow from a war club. Splinters of bone stuck out from under her cheekbones. Her face was squinched up so that she was barely recognizable. Her nose was no longer there; it had been mashed into her twisted mouth so that it resembled a mass of bloody dough.

  Faron rode around to the back of the wagon, dreading what he would see. Cal Morton still had a hatchet buried in his chest. The breastbone had been split in two, his heart severed, leaving a tangle of arteries exposed like so many hollow worms. His throat was cut, as well, and it was plain to see the savagery of the attack.

  The Cherokee had struck swiftly and silently.

  None of those now dead had had the slightest chance to defend themselves. Faron could picture it in his mind as he looked up at the sides of the gully. The Indians must have been waiting on both sides, lying in the tall grass, waiting for the wagons to reach the bottom of the gully. They had sprung from their hiding places and leaped down, in unison, hatchets swinging, knives slashing. Others had cut the traces and released the mules. More had ridden in and taken the mules and the attackers away.

  All of this done in mere seconds.

  Briggs didn’t know where to start. His stomach seemed ready to explode. He gulped in air as he turned away from the carnage to collect his thoughts. He would have to bury the dead, of course, but now he was so filled with the horror of the slaughter that he couldn’t face such a chore. He walked around in a daze, wondering that he had been spared and knowing in his heart that the Cherokee had seen him ride through the gully and had chosen to let him live so that he could witness the massacre and carry its message to others of his race. It was a sobering thought.

  Faron looked up at the sky as a shadow crossed his face.

  They were already gathering. The smell of blood had brought them, and there they were, one buzzard, two, a third, wheeling overhead, their heads moving from side to side as they glided in circles on silent pinions. The sight of them made the anger inside him boil up and fill him with an almost uncontrollable rage. But there was no enemy close at hand. The Cherokee had left, taking the mules as their booty, and he was alone.

  Faron walked back to the first wagon and started looking inside for a shovel. He would bury the dead and ride on to Santa Fe alone to tell his story to any who would listen. He was just pulling a long-handled shovel from the Willis wagon when he heard the crunch of hooves on sand and rock. He stiffened, started to reach for the butt of his pistol.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a man said. “Just turn around real slow and hold your hands out where I can see them.”

  Faron did as he was told.

  There, on a tall horse, sat a tall man, lean as a whip, armed, staring at him from under a wide-brimmed, coal-black hat.

  “Mister, maybe you better take a look around before you jump all over any conclusions you already got.”

  “I saw some Cherokee riding away from here, driving a dozen barebacked mules. I can see what happened. I’m just wondering how you got out from under it.”

  “I was riding up ahead when it happened. Scouting the trail. I was the wagon master for this bunch of poor souls. And who might you be, stranger?”

  “The name’s Horatio Blackhawk. And you?”

  “Faron Briggs.”

  “I’ll help you bury these folks,” Blackhawk said, “and then I’ll have a question or two for you.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “I’m a United States marshal. And I’m hunting a man. A killer. You may have run into him.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Blackhawk swung down from his horse.

  “You got another shovel?” he asked.

  Faron nodded. He looked up as another shadow shrouded his face.

  More buzzards were circling. He saw a dozen up there now.

  “Try that last wagon there, Marshal. Should be a shovel in there, or hooked to the side.”

  Blackhawk walked back toward the last wagon, leading his horse.

  Faron wondered who the man was looking for. He reminded him, the way he was dressed, the way he walked, of one of those buzzards overhead. Like them, he was hunting a man, but one that was alive, not dead.

  “You might as well ask me now,” Briggs said.

  “Zane. I’m looking for a man named Lew Zane.”

  “I seen a feller named Lew. He was with another man. Jeff somebody. Can’t recall that I heard his last name.”

  “Do you know if he was headed for Santa Fe?”

  “I think they were going to Colorado. Lew and that man he called Jeff.”

  “Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.”

  The day seemed to darken, although the sun was as bright as a freshly minted twenty-dollar gold piece.

  20

  THE AIR WAS THIN IN LEADVILLE. IT LAY IN THE CROTCH OF the Rocky Mountains, two dizzying miles above sea level. Yet Lew had never seen such a small town so full of bustling people. When Jack Hardy rode down Harrison Street, pointing out his favorite places, Lew drank it all in as if he were being introduced to a magical city full of delights and wonders.

  “Yonder’s Haw Tabor’s Opera House,” Hardy said, his voice laden with pride, “and oh, there’s Cy Allen’s Monarch Saloon, where many an elbow has bended, and there’s Hyman�
��s Saloon, right next door to Haw Tabor’s Opera House. Tabor’s the richest man in Leadville, smart as a horse, wily as a fox, old Haw is. Them are his initials, H.A.W., and you’ll see him and his lovely wife, Baby Doe, sitting in their box listening to the singing, clapping their hands along with the miners and ne’er-do-wells in the gallery.”

  Lew gawked like a country yokel seeing the tall buildings of New York for the first time.

  “If you want to play some poker, yonder’s the Board of Trade Saloon,” Hardy said. “Ah, I can hear the chink of chips, the clink of glasses, and a powerful thirst coming on. But first, I must show you my mine and my humble abode. And pay you what I owe you.”

  Lew was tempted to tell Hardy to forget his debt because he was grateful to have a guide to such a wondrous place where men crossed the street with purposeful strides and women hiked their skirts on the boardwalks, and wagons and carts filled the street, all going and coming from somewhere, all industrious, all, seemingly, armed with urgent purpose.

  “Hungry?” Jack asked.

  “Starved. Must be the altitude.”

  “It’ll give a man hunger. You may have a headache for a few days until you get used to the thin air.”

  Hardy turned a corner and reined up in front of a small café called Casa Alta. People scurried up and down the street and there was no boardwalk. Lew could smell the food as he wrapped his reins around the hitch rail.

  They went inside, walked to an empty table in the corner.

  “Umm, smells good,” Lew said as he picked up a slate with the day’s bill of fare. He looked at the prices and nearly choked.

  “It costs dear to eat in this place,” he said.

  “Mining town prices. Don’t worry yourself none. I’m paying for both of us.”

  “All the food listed here is in a foreign language,” Lew said.

  Hardy laughed. “Mexican. Don’t worry about it none. You’ll learn the lingo in no time. Let me order for you.”

  Lew set the slate down and smiled.

  “I hope you let me eat it,” he said.

  They both laughed.

  Lew studied the faces of the people, wondering if any of them knew Carol Smith. Or Wayne, for that matter. He had no idea where Carol lived, but according to Jeff, it was some ways out of town.

  The waitress came over.

  “Hello, Peggy,” Jack said. “This is my friend, Lew. Lew Zane. You treat him nice when he comes in, will you?”

  “I sure will, Mr. Hardy. Pleased to meet you, Lew. What’ll it be today?”

  “Bring us both some of that carne asada, some hot tortillas, fritas papas, and hot coffee.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  “Her name’s Margarita, a Mex gal,” Jack said. “But everybody here calls her Peggy. She knows most everybody in town.”

  “Meaning I can ask her where to find Carol Smith?”

  “After you get to know her better, yes.”

  “I see,” Lew said.

  The food was delicious. Spicy beef, as tender as any he had tasted, beans, and fried potatoes. Washed down with steaming-hot coffee. Lew filled his belly and Jack paid the bill, stuffed some bills in the pocket of Peggy’s apron.

  “My friend Lew here will probably be back, Peggy. You treat him right, hear?”

  “I will, Mr. Hardy. Ten cuidado, eh?”

  “Thank you, darling.”

  They rode on through the town, and Lew gazed at the hillsides where tall scaffolds stretched to large cave holes blasted out of sheer rock and places where trees had been shorn to sink mine shafts deep into the heart of the mountain.

  They wound their way up a craggy road, leaving the teeming settlement behind, to come upon wooden shacks, smoke curling from rock chimneys, water flowing in a creek, and a blue pall over the shacks, adding to the mystery of the place. He wondered if Carol lived in any of the cabins, and decided they were all too close to town. Another road, up a steep canyon, and more mines pocking the rugged sides of the mountain, evergreens in staggered phalanxes reaching to the blue sky, and finally, a homely abode nestled in the spruce and pines, where Hardy turned in, a smile on his face.

  “Let’s tie up to the hitch rail, Lew, and I’ll show you my humble dwelling.”

  The cabin was well made, with whipsawed lumber, a shingled roof with a steep pitch, even a porch, and pine slabs nailed to the sides of every wall.

  Inside, Jack left Lew standing in the middle of the front room. Lew noticed that it was nicely furnished, with two divans, plush chairs, one a rocker, some small tables, a desk, oil lamps at strategic places. There were curtains next to the windows that looked to have been made from Mexican blankets, and a footstool near a divan covered in the same colorful material.

  Jack returned and handed some bills to Lew.

  “As promised,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Lew said. “That’s an awful lot of money to rent a horse.”

  “Take it. If you have to stay awhile and eat at Peggy’s café, you’ll need it. Now, have a seat and let’s talk some business.”

  Lew took off his hat and sat down in one of the chairs. Hardy sat in the rocker.

  “You want a job, Lew?”

  “That depends, Jack. I don’t know how long I’ll be up here. I want to go back to Pueblo. Somewhere in between, I’ll need to work.”

  “Your schedule might work for me. I’m sending another bunch of ore down to Pueblo in a week or two. I’d like you to go with me when I contact a buyer for my silver. He’ll pay in cash and I’ll need a bodyguard.”

  “A bodyguard?”

  “Honest work. You may not have to do anything. But I’ll be packin’ quite a bit of cash and I’d like to know I had help in keepin’ it.”

  “Did you have a bodyguard before?”

  “Yes,” he said, so quickly that Lew got the impression that Hardy didn’t want him to pursue the subject. But Lew did anyway.

  “What happened to that bodyguard, Jack?”

  “Long story. I had made a large sale of silver to a buyer in Santa Fe. My bodyguard had once worked as a constable in Pueblo. He was a good man, I thought. But he was a braggart, and I guess he told some of his police friends about the large amount of money he was guarding. We were staying at a hotel in Pueblo. I had put a large sum in the bank, but still carried a rather large amount with me, intending to take it up to Leadville to pay my workers. The night before we were to leave for Leadville, some armed men broke into my hotel room. They clubbed me senseless, killed the bodyguard, and took all of the money.”

  “Do you know who it was? Did you see the men who robbed you?” Lew asked.

  Hardy nodded.

  “I saw them. Filed a complaint with the chief of police. Told him who the men were.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I figure the police all shared in the money that was stolen. Nothing happened. They looked the other way.”

  “When did this happen?” Lew asked.

  “I was on my way back from Pueblo when my horse broke its leg. It just happened. That money is still sitting in the bank down there. I had some that the robbers didn’t find. Luckily, I didn’t trust my bodyguard completely so the thieves didn’t get much, less than a thousand dollars.”

  “What makes you think I can do any better?”

  “You’ve already had a run-in with one of the men who robbed me,” Hardy said.

  “I have?”

  “I think so. I recognized the ringleader of the gang that broke into my hotel room. Three men. One is a strong-arm who works at the Double Eagle, a man named Ed McDermott. Another was a part-time city constable named Julius Grandy. He had been my bodyguard’s partner and I knew him.”

  “And the third man?”

  “Wayne Smith. Wasn’t he the one who killed your friend Jeff?”

  Lew’s palms grew clammy with cold sweat.

  “I think so,” he said.

  “The bodyguard I hired was a man named Abner Casper. When I hired him, he told m
e a lot about Smith. Smith is an ambitious policeman who is also greedy. Casper said that Smith had a little side business at the Double Eagle. He and a woman named Flora Benitez look for patrons with money who come into her establishment, the Double Eagle, then see to it that they get waylaid when they leave and relieved of their money.”

  “I heard something like that, too,” Lew said.

  “But this Smith is greedy, and he’s meaner than a snake. The police won’t do anything about him, because he’s paying them some of his proceeds. I think Smith is graduating from beating up drunks to going after bigger rewards. I think I was one of the first he’s robbed because he had confidential information. I think he’s planning to do more of the same.”

  “What do you mean?” Lew asked.

  “A lot of the miners here in Leadville are very rich. Some of them are dumb. They go to Pueblo and Santa Fe and buy expensive cigars, play with the painted women, and throw money around to show how rich they are. I think Smith has his eye on some of these jaspers and means to rob every one of them when they sell their silver in Pueblo.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Something Casper said when he was dying up in that hotel room.”

  “I’m listening,” Lew said.

  “He said Smith had big plans. Smith was going to rob a bunch of men in between Pueblo and Taos, then head for parts unknown. He’s just waiting like a damned vulture to pounce on the rich miners who will be heading for Pueblo before the first snow.”

  “Seems to me, Jack, he means for you to be one of them.”

  “I know I’m on his list.”

  “This isn’t a job for a lone bodyguard. You’d need an army to go up against Smith and his cronies.”

  “Maybe not,” Hardy said.