Shotgun Riders

by Orrin Russell

  “I had a notion Cafferty would ask for this,” said Joe.

  “How’d you know?” said Charles.

  “He can’t do it himself, and he’s got no deputy. Ross can’t do it. It’s not even his responsibility. You’re the man he trusts, Balum. You and me. All that time when we were getting ready to raid the Triple B Ranch, Cafferty was going on about how we needed to take Buford alive so we could get him to Texas. Near every time he said it he looked your way or he looked mine.”

  “I guess he did,” Balum recollected.

  “You’ve got the roan loaded down with supplies. I take it you’re ready to leave for Denver?”

  “No use wasting time.”

  “No,” said Joe. “There isn’t. Let’s say these goodbyes then, and get riding.”

  3

  They rode at an unhurried but steady pace. Their route took them through cattle country, over miles of empty plains, and past Shane Carly’s dugout where Balum spat reflexively at the vault of bad memories reopened by the sight of the whiskey peddler’s dump.

  They sat upright in their saddles with their eyes constantly on the horizon. Just under three days later when they rode into the sun-drenched streets of Denver, a noticeable change had come over them. These were not cowhands ridden in from the range. These were rough men, scarred over from countless battles, from the hardships of life in the unsettled West, and thoroughly aware of the task ahead.

  The sight of them turned heads. Balum’s short history in the area was enough to make him a known man.

  Joe’s story was not so well known, which only offered the opportunity for exaggeration and wild speculations as to his past. He’d been around for the Ned Witney shooting, had accompanied Balum on the wagon train west with Frederick Nelson. It was Joe that helped chase Johnny Freed back across the desert, and word was that Joe had been key in the capture of the Bell brothers who sat at that very moment in the town jail.

  As if that wasn’t enough to garner the looks of the townsfolk, there was his physical appearance. The Apache side showed through without remorse. He wore his hair long past his shoulders, preferred knee-high moccasins to boots, yet wore a gun at his hip that was unmistakably there for use. As for the nine-inch bowie knife at his belt, there existed stories for that as well. Stories of scalpings, of knife fights in the dark. The kinds of tales parents would tell their children when they misbehaved: be good, or Indian Joe will come for you.

  By the time they pulled their horses up outside the Denver city jail, word of their arrival had spread clear to the other side of town. They swung down from their saddles, ignoring the gawkers in the street, and stepped onto the boardwalk and through the jailhouse door.

  Before he’d fully stepped inside, a familiar voice met Balum. Not the lazy voice of Ross Buckling the town sheriff, or the business-like tone of Pete Cafferty, but the weaselly bleating of William Claddy railing about the mistreatment of his clients. He wore a ratty suit coat that matched his neck beard like an unsavory compliment.

  At the sight of Balum and Joe he stopped his caterwauling mid-sentence. His arms shot up defensively and he edged around the desk closer to where Ross Bucking sat.

  “I’d like to press charges against that man too,” he pointed at Balum.

  “You want to press charges on Balum?” said Ross.

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “For this,” Claddy pointed to the bruising around his eye that had not yet completely healed.

  Ross raised an eyebrow. He looked at the shiner and he looked at Balum. “You give Claddy that black eye, Balum?”

  “I did.”

  A newspaper was unfurled over Ross’s desk. The sheriff rolled it into a tube and tapped it against his chin and looked over the two parties gathered in his jail office. “You have a good reason for hitting him?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “It have anything to do with him throwing your trial so you could be locked up in the Colorado State Penitentiary?”

  “That pretty much sums it up, Ross.”

  The sheriff pointed the paper at the two-bit lawyer. He didn’t bother to hide his smile. “Sounds like you got off easy, Claddy.”

  “Is that supposed to mean you’ll not be doing anything about it?”

  “Look,” said Ross. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. You want me to slap Balum on the wrist for giving you what you deserved, or do you want to get back to your clients?”

  William Claddy pursed his lips and stared at Balum. He brushed his hands down his suit coat in an attempt to compose himself, then turned back to Ross. “My clients have made a request that falls fully within their rights.”

  “Uh-huh,” mumbled Ross.

  “Pursuant to code fourteen thirty-six of the…”

  “Alright, alright,” Ross slapped the paper over the desk. “I’ll put ‘em all in one cell. Now get out of my office.”

  Claddy brushed his suit coat once more, then turned toward the door. He gave Balum and Joe a wide berth and scuttled out onto the boardwalk.

  “What was all that about?” said Balum.

  “You can probably guess he’s representing the Bell brothers.”

  “What’s there to represent?” said Balum. “Aren’t they all set to hang?”

  “They’ll hang alright, there’s no doubt. In the meantime he’s been coming in daily to gripe about everything under the sun. This visit you interrupted was about getting them all into one cell. I had ‘em separated out, and for some reason they want to be crammed together into the same cell. Heck if I know why. Anyway,” he let the paper fall on his desk, “you ready to take Buford off my hands?”

  “We’re ready,” said Balum. “Where’s Cafferty?”

  “Down at Jackson Stables getting the stage ready. We didn’t figure you’d be here so quick. You fancy a stroll? If we don’t dawdle we can catch him there.”

  At Jackson Stables they found Pete Cafferty lying on his back beneath a worn and beaten Concord stagecoach. Squatting by a wheel was a man with forearms thick as sapling trunks. He held a hammer and crowbar in his hands.

  “You taking a nap under there, Marshal?” said Ross, chuckling at his own joke.

  Cafferty crawled out from underneath the stage. He wiped a hand over his cheek, leaving a streak of axle grease across it. “I’d shake your hands,” he said, “but I’d only get you soiled.” He glanced back at where he’d just been lying, then patted the stage door like a trusted horse. “She might be old, but she’ll take a beating and keep on rolling. I guarantee you that. Look at what we’ve done. This stage came equipped with two sets of braces and we installed another entire set. A cradle on wheels is what this is. And speaking of wheels, we took off the originals and swapped them out for these mud wagon behemoths. You’d have to make an effort to get stuck, and even then I’d doubt you’d be able to. Bars on the windows, that’s obviously a custom touch, and if you look here,” he signaled to the doors, “you’ll see we’ve got heavy-duty locks that you couldn’t cut through if you had a sharp blade and six men as strong as Jackson here,” he tilted a thumb at the man with the giant forearms.

  Balum and Joe nodded throughout the presentation. When Cafferty finished showing off the sandbox brakes, the cushioned driver’s bench and the reinforced hitch, they took a slow walk around its circumference like mourners around a coffin.

  “Well,” said Cafferty when they’d come back around, “what do you think?”

  “That’s some job you’ve done,” said Joe. “Balum mentioned you were sprucing up an old stagecoach, but this looks more like a war wagon.”

  “I wouldn’t send you off unprepared.”

  “Is it ready to go?”

  “Once Jackson finishes greasing the hubs you’ll be all set. You can pick Buford up tomorrow morning. I’ll make sure you’ve got provisions. Salt pork, flour, cornmeal… you won’t go hungry.”

  “You won’t forget tobacco and coffee?” said Balum.

  “All you can drink, all you
can chew.”

  “Anything else we need to know?”

  “Don’t let me forget to give you the warrant for the Sanderson girl. You can pick it up along with Buford tomorrow. Also, I’ll write up a piece of legalese that will temporarily appoint you U.S. Deputy Marshal. As much grief as my higher-ups will give me about it, I don’t give a damn. So keep that note handy in your pocket and don’t let the weight of it go to your head.” Cafferty looked both men in the eye, then turned to the sheriff. “Anything you want to add, Ross?”

  “One thing,” said the sheriff. “Don’t forget who you’ll be carrying in back of this stage. He knows he’s riding to his death. You can bet every mile of that journey he’ll be thinking on how to escape. If that means killing you two to do it, then he will. So be safe. Get him delivered, find the Sanderson girl, and be done with it.”

  4

  “The night’s wide open,” said Joe. He stood alongside Balum in the shade of an awning, roughly at the corner of where several distinct cultural barrios of the city collided. “It’s the last night we’ll be able to call ourselves free men.”

  “Is that the way you figure it?” said Balum.

  “From tomorrow on we’ll be babysitters.”

  “I reckon that’s a fair way to call it.”

  “So how do you want to spend it?”

  Balum leaned against the wall and stared at the dust raised by a passing pull cart. It hovered in the air, pierced through by the setting sun and glowing a brilliant pumpkin orange. He looked at his friend. “Seems like you’ve already got something on your mind.”

  “Maybe,” said Joe. “Plenty to do in Denver. There’s saloons and cantinas; I wouldn’t mind a drink. There’s the gambling halls; I could do with some faro or a hand of poker. Down off the main drag they’re setting up a traveling show. Folks are already lining up.”

  “All good options.”

  “All good options indeed.”

  Balum looked again at the dust now settling back to the ground. He fished around in his pocket, came out with a pouch of chewing tobacco and, after offering Joe a pinch first, packed a wad into his cheek. He worked his jaw some, then spat a bead of juice into the street. “There’s another option you ain’t mentioned.”

  Joe nodded his head slowly like a man considering some grave theory on the vagaries of life. He walked to the edge of the boardwalk, leaned against an awning, and crossed one foot over the other with his toes resting on the wooden slats. He took his hat off and raked a hand through his hair. “Yep,” he leaned and spat and looked back at Balum. “Several fine options.”

  “You just ain’t gonna say ‘em.”

  “Hell, Balum. It’s not like it used to be. Things have changed.”

  “You mean Angelique.”

  “I’m not saying it in a bad way. Not at all. You’ve got something amazing there, and to tell you the truth, I envy you. She’s an incredible woman. In fact, I’d like to see the two of you married one day. And due to that fact, I’d consider it a mistake on my part to lead you down the path of temptation.”

  Balum laughed. A loud, boisterous, good-natured laugh that only grew louder, and eventually spread to Joe like a contagion.

  “I’m serious, Balum,” Joe put a hand to his face in an effort to pull his cheeks down. His face was crinkled in laughter. “Seriously. Remember back to when we were chasing Freed through the desert and we stopped at that silver boom town? After we shot up that girlie show, I went back. You stayed behind. You did the right thing. But it couldn’t have been easy for you knowing how much fun I was having and you just sitting there alone at the hotel.”

  “It wasn’t so bad.”

  “Shoot. Anyway, what I’m saying is this; from here to Texas there’s going to be more towns. More women. I figure not only is it my job to keep Buford wrapped up and out of trouble, it’s my duty as a friend to Angelique and a friend to you, to keep you out of trouble too.”

  Balum’s lips parted nearly to his ears.

  “That tickle your funny bone?”

  Balum wiped his eyes. “I nearly swallowed my chaw.”

  “Shoot. Serve you right.”

  “Look,” the smile left Balum’s face. He walked closer to Joe and looked over his shoulder into the almost empty street. “I’m laughing, sure, but the truth is, that’s what a true friend would say.”

  “What?”

  “What you said right there. About keeping me out of trouble.”

  “Well, I’m a friend to both of you.”

  “I know you are. I’ll admit, sometimes I need to be kept out of trouble. The thing is,” Balum brought a hand to his jaw and scratched it. He bent his head and waited for a pair of ladies to pass. “Well, it’s an unusual situation we have.”

  “You and me?”

  “No. Me and Angelique.”

  “What’s unusual about it? Looks straight as an Apache arrow.”

  “We have an arrangement.”

  Joe twisted and spat a ball of tobacco juice into the dirt. He waited for Balum to explain himself.

  “It goes something like this; I love her and she loves me. We know that. We also know that we ain’t two regular folks. You know what kind of hell I raise when I let the badger lose. Well Angelique ain’t no different. Think about the business she ran all those years. She’s not the ladies social type.”

  “So what’s the arrangement?”

  “Pretty much what you’re thinking.”

  Joe stared back at Balum, and after a while a smile crept over his face. “You can’t imagine what I’m thinking.”

  “I can. And that’s what Angelique and I agreed on.”

  Joe shook his head. “I’ll be damned.” He frowned and tapped a heel on the boardwalk. “So I don’t need to steer you clear of women from here to Texas?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good,” said Joe. “Cause that would have been a hell of a job. What do you say we have ourselves a good time tonight.”

  “I’d say that’s fine by me. Let’s track down Chester. See what’s new in town.”

  Near the end of a winding lane Balum and Joe came to a stop in front of Chester’s thatch cabin. Shutters covered the windows. The place was as silent as the lane around it, but Balum rapped his knuckles on the door anyway. He knocked again, waited, and was about to leave when a rustle came from inside. The door opened a crack. An eye pressed against it and ran Balum up and down.

  “Evening,” said Balum. “Is Chester around?”

  The door swung open a little wider, revealing a woman’s face. “He doesn't live here anymore.”

  “Where’s he gone to?”

  The woman shrugged. “Fancy part of town would be my guess.”

  “Fancy part of town? Chester?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are we talking about the same fellow? He’s an old timer, not too tall, scraggly white beard. Dirt poor. Likes to gamble.”

  “That’s him. All except the poor part. That’s why he doesn’t live in this part of town anymore. I bought the place off him two weeks ago.”

  “Chester?”

  “Like you said; he likes to gamble. That old man’s gotten a reputation as one of the best in town. Now if you excuse me, I’ve got chores that need doing.”

  The door closed. Balum turned to Joe. “You hear that?”

  “I heard it.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Balum stepped into the lane where a pack of dogs trotted through on a canine mission. “I’ll be the first to say he was good. I’ve seen him at the card table and he’s no fool. He used to play at the Silver Nest. Last couple times I was in town he found himself a new home at the Sagebrush. You’ve never been, have you?”

  “I’ve been cooped up on the ranch too long.”

  “You’re in for a treat. Let’s go.”

  The Sagebrush towered three stories up from street level, and no more did a man need to cross under the massive arched doorway to realize he was entering an establishment unlike any other in Denver. The f
loor was carpeted, the croupiers robed in tuxedos and white bow ties. Where they got the waitresses from was a mystery, for they were young and beautiful, and as they walked the floor serving drinks and food, the men could hardly keep themselves from staring no matter how engaging their hand of cards.

  The sound of the place alone took a moment to get accustomed to. Choruses of shouting erupted from the craps tables, laughter and conversation hummed like a drone of bees. There were glasses clinking, dice rolling and, through it all, the clanging of piano keys. Joe eyed it over in disbelief. His neck arched back to take in the second and third story balconies where guests stood against the railings and observed the main floor with cocktails in hand.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

  “A lot of money moves through here,” said Balum. “You should see the suites on the third floor. Bathtubs in each washroom.”

  “I’ve never heard the like.”

  “I’ve got a story about one of those tubs. I’ll tell it to you on the way to Texas-- you’ll like it. Now let’s find Chester.”

  The two moved through the craps tables. They watched the faro games for a minute and finally wandered into the poker area where Balum felt his heart rate speed up at the prospect of a game. He felt the few bills in his pocket and looked over the players but didn’t see his old friend anywhere among them.

  Dealers peeled cards from decks in expert fashion. Chips fell, pots were raked in. Money won and lost. Fortunes squandered and gained. As Balum watched it all, an awareness bred from a lifetime in lonely country told him someone was watching him. He scanned the players again and noticed an older gentleman dressed in a fine suit coat smiling at him from one of the high stakes tables. His thin silver hair had been thickened with pomade, his face was clean shaven. Balum knew him, he was sure of it. He tried to place him, reaching through memories of boom towns and campfires shared with strangers, until suddenly he realized the old man grinning at him from the poker table was Chester himself, cleaned up, dressed up, duded up and winning.