Shotgun Riders

by Orrin Russell

  The three men on horseback narrowed their eyes. They followed Connor’s hand as it disappeared inside the pocket, and when he pulled it back out in a blur of motion, their reactions were far too late. Connor’s empty palm slapped the gun at his hip. He drew and pointed, and when he fired the boy jerked as though he’d been woken suddenly from sleep.

  From the darkness roared four more revolvers. Otis jerked atop his saddle much the same as his son had, and Connor sent another bullet into the boy’s chest. The three riders slumped sideways in their saddles. As Connor’s brothers stepped back into the firelight, Otis fell to the ground where he landed with a thump.

  In his pockets Connor found some tobacco and matches. He moved away from the dead rancher to his son, found nothing worth taking, and nothing on the third man either.

  “I didn’t expect they’d have no cash on ‘em anyways,” he said. “You boys heard what he said though. There ain’t no bank in town, and the ranch house ain’t but two miles thataway.”

  “We going now?” asked Floyd.

  “Now’s as good a time as any. Let’s ride.”

  It wasn’t hard to find. They had the direction and they had the distance, and as they closed in, Connor’s eyes spotted a lantern glowing from a window like a beacon leading them to treasure. When their horses stomped over the yard someone picked it up and took it through the doorway. An old woman, unarmed by the looks of her.

  “Evening, ma’am,” said Connor from horseback. “This the Otis Johnson residence?”

  She raised the lantern as if by the stretch of her arm she might see them better. “It is. Who are you?”

  Connor swung to the ground. He walked a few paces and drew the Colt. “I’m the man your husband came looking for.” He snatched the lantern from her hand and pointed the gun at her head. “He told me you had cash money sitting here. Ain’t no use denying it. You ever want to see him again, I suggest you hand it over.”

  The woman’s head shook slightly. Her wrinkled lips hung open. “Is he alright?”

  “He won’t be if you don’t turn that money over. Now move.”

  She clasped her hands to her face and pivoted to the door. Connor followed. His brothers dropped from their horses and filed into the ranch house after them. The woman walked straight to the bedroom in back. Connor trailed a foot behind without any modicum of privacy offered. From beneath the bed she pulled out a box. When she attempted to flip open the latches her hands were shaking and she was crying.

  “Move outta the way,” said Connor. He shoved her aside and kicked at the small metal latches until they broke. With a boot toe he flipped open the lid. Stacked in the bottom of the box were three piles of banknotes bound in string and a glass jar full of coins. “Goddamn,” was all he said.

  “Are you going to let Otis go now?” the woman asked through sobs. “What about my son? Is he alright?”

  Connor looked at the woman crying beside the bed. “Can you move over there a little ways?” he motioned with the gun.

  “What?” said the woman. But the question was more for her own sake. She shuffled backward, slowly.

  Connor waited until she reached the end of the bed. “I don’t want to get no blood on all this money.”

  They rode out that night to put distance between themselves and any law Crenshaw might have. In the morning they counted the bank notes out in the orange light of the rising sun.

  Connor counted once and turned the notes over and counted again. It was slow going, as his grasp on numbers was thin, but after two times over he came up with the same number.

  “How much is it?” said John Boy.

  “Ain’t but a hundred dollars and change.”

  “Looked like more than that.”

  “It’s all small notes,” said Connor. He looked at them blankly then folded them in a wad and stuffed them in his pocket.

  “What kind of man we gonna find that’ll kill someone for a hundred dollars?” said Delmar.

  “He’s out there,” said Connor. “We just gotta find him.”

  Two days of riding brought them to an unnamed collection of buildings facing each other across a single street. On the end of town was an old barn that served as a livery. Connor paid the man for a day’s care for the animals, then ambled down the street with his brothers, their eyes peeled for two extremes of men; the law and the lawless.

  They found no sign of the first. At the one tavern in town they ordered each of themselves a drink of yellow liquor only slightly better tasting that Shane Carly’s poison, and looked about for the second. All they found were peasants, bums, and old broken men. They drank the swill from their mugs and bought themselves a meal and spaces on five cots in a tent on the edge of town. The following day they rode out on freshly groomed horses.

  The next town down the trail was big enough to carry a name. Fairview, they called it, though Connor disagreed. The view, in his opinion, was shit. The town itself didn’t boast a view worth looking at no matter which of the three streets he looked down. Outside of town the trees had thinned out to mostly unremarkable grasslands, and even to the west there wasn’t much to see. The mountains seemed far off and weak. Nothing compared to the views from Cheyenne or Denver.

  The town did have a proper hotel though, as well as four saloons. Connor led his brothers into each one. By the time they left they were ten dollars poorer than when they’d started and still they’d found no man willing to take the job.

  By the time they reached the town of Cumberland he had no more than eighty dollars of the original hundred, and that old feeling of acid in his belly had returned. Every day they were closer to Texas and shorter on time. He ran through the idea of facing Balum down man to man in the street, and each time he did he felt a chill run up his spine.

  They needed a killer, plain and simple. Someone willing to take eighty dollars in return for murder. Those kinds of men existed-- Connor had come across more than one in his lifetime-- but they were hard to find. He hoped Cumberland would be home to one. It was certainly big enough; from the elevation of a mile out he could make out different neighborhoods, a dozen buildings over two stories tall, and even a well-worn stage road running east to west. He led his brothers down the slope and onto the road at the east side of town just as the sun was setting over hazy blue mountains blending onto a velvet sky.

  The stage station was situated at the edge of town along with a ramshackle restaurant that, by the looks of it, catered to no one but the unassuming fools that failed to venture another fifty yards down the street in search of something better. The sign above the station advertised a weekly stage. Alongside the platform was the coach itself, harnessed up to a team of six tired-looking horses. Even before Connor reached the stagecoach he heard the sounds of argument coming from the side closest the station. Curious, he nudged his horse around for a look.

  The scene he came upon was bizarre even by the standards of the odd little towns through which he’d just traveled. A fat man, clearly the stage driver, was engaged in an argument with a man who, by the looks of it, had recently been scalped. The skin had scabbed over the top of his head. Less than six months ago, Connor guessed. Just above the ears and at the nape of his neck grew scraggled hair, long and thin and grimy. Nearly as odd as the man’s head were his fingers. They measured as long as a pistol barrel, the knuckles large against the skin. He waved them around as he pleaded his case to the driver.

  “I got friends that’ll spot me the money. You just got to trust me.”

  “The stage doesn’t run on trust,” answered the driver.

  “I’m sick of this town,” said Long Fingers. “I want out.”

  “My advice to you then, is to get a job. Now scram.”

  Long Fingers wore a gun at his hip. For a moment Connor wondered if the man would shoot the driver in his fat belly. He was mad enough, that was obvious. But he turned instead and shuffled into the restaurant beside the station.

  Connor didn’t make any move to keep riding. Neither did his
brothers. Something else had stolen their attention. They sat their horses like idiots, staring at what next unfolded.

  Two women, a mother and daughter by the looks of them, rose from a bench on the platform and presented their own case for a free ride to the driver. Connor felt his neck choke up as they crossed the wooden boards. Not in all the whorehouses from Georgia to the Wyoming Territory had he seen anything like these two. Their hair bounced like thick silk on springs. Their lips were full and red, their skin flawless. But more important that any of that was what their low-cut dresses revealed; gigantic breasts, full and heaving and smashed against each other to create two deep enticing cleavages from which Connor could not tear his eyes. He followed every bounce and jiggle as the two women stomped across the boards.

  “What is it now, Charlise?” said the driver when the two stopped in front of him with their hands on their hips in a clear show of indignation.

  “You haven’t loaded our luggage,” said the older of the women.

  Connor guessed her age to be early thirties. The spitting image of her daughter couldn’t have been over twenty.

  “I got a full stage,” said the driver. “No room.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you expect us to do?”

  “I don’t give a damn. I’ll be back in a couple weeks. Until then, shut up and wait.”

  “You’re the sorriest excuse for a husband I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ain’t the first time you’ve told me.” The driver turned his back to them and climbed onto the driving bench.

  “Maybe we won’t be here when you get back,” threatened the woman.

  “You ain’t going nowhere. I told you that hotel business would go bust in Bette’s Creek, and I was right. Now if you’re gonna live off my dollar, you’ll heed my word.” He gave the reins a slap and the six-horse team lunged into their traces, leaving the platform in a cloud of dust.

  The two women turned in a huff and quickly entered the restaurant to escape the fouled air. Connor took a look at his brothers. Without a word they dismounted right there at the stage station and walked over the platform after them.

  Inside, Long Fingers walked among the tables where a few patrons slurped gray liquid from bowls. He held his hands out like an offering bowl and mumbled a few pathetic words, and was each time turned away without a single cent granted him. The two women had taken seats at a table in back. They sat with their arms crossed, which only accentuated the enormity of their chests. Floyd and Donny started to cut a line through the tables toward them, but Connor pulled them back by their shoulders.

  “Business first, boys,” he said, and motioned for them to sit. When all five had taken seats around a wobbly table, he caught Long Finger’s eye and waved him over. “Have a seat, friend,” he smiled. “I’ve seen hard times myself. I’ll spot you a bowl of grub.”

  “Hard times don’t even begin to describe it,” said Long Fingers. He plopped down and laid the long digits of his hands over the tabletop. “Damn stage driver is a bastard if there ever was one. I’m sick of this town-- I want out. But all he can think of is his damn money.”

  “And you’re short on that.”

  “Aye.”

  “Short on hair, too,” said Donny.

  Long Fingers shot a look across the table.

  “Don’t mind my brother,” said Connor. “He’s got no manners.”

  “It’s true,” said Long Fingers. “A damn savage took my scalp this past spring. Ever since, my luck’s turned south. Hard to get a job looking like this,” he pointed to his dome.

  “What line of work are you in?” said Connor.

  “The line of work that puts money in my pocket. I don’t give a damn how I get it.”

  Connor felt a surge of elation rise up. He felt suddenly that his luck had turned, and the man with the extended digits before him was on the end of it. “You say an indian did that to you?”

  “Damn right. Half-breed by the looks of him. Working with a white man if you can believe it. I don’t know what this world is coming to.”

  “That’s funny; we got problems with a half-breed too. And a white man.”

  “If I ever run across him I’ll put a bullet in him, so help me.”

  “Yours have a name?”

  “Goes by the name of Joe.”

  The sound of symbols clashing rang in Connor’s ears.

  “Hey that’s our man’s name,” said Donny.

  Long Fingers leaned over the table. He flashed his eyes around to each Bell brother in a conspiratorial manner, and lowered his voice. “By God I hope it’s the same one. I don’t know the white man’s name he runs with, but I know what he looks like. He’s over six feet tall, wide in the shoulder. He’s got a square face that looks like its been put through rough times, and when he talks he seems to look right through you.”

  Connor bounced his fist lightly on the table. “That’s our man!” he exclaimed in a frantic whisper. “His name’s Balum, and he’ll be riding through any day.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Long Fingers whispered back. “Maybe missing that stage was a good thing. I’ll put that damn savage underground.”

  “You handy with that gun?” Connor bobbed his head at the weapon on Long Finger’s hip.

  “You better believe it.”

  “You gonna shoot him?”

  “Damn right.”

  “What about Balum?”

  Long Fingers considered this. Finally he said, “It’s the indian I want.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Connor was so excited he was half off the chair and leaning across the table on his forearms. “You kill that son-of-a-bitch Balum and you’ll have money to get out of town and then some.”

  “How much?”

  “Eighty dollars.”

  Long Fingers made a grimace. The amount was almost a slap in the face; Connor knew it. But he also knew the man in front of him was dead broke and had a chip on his shoulder.

  “Ain’t you got no more’n eighty?” said Long Fingers.

  “It’s all we got. And that’s the truth.”

  Long Fingers made a show of facial expressions and mumbled deliberations. While he pretended to weigh the offer, Connor motioned to the proprietor to bring them all bowls of soup. The proprietor responded with surprising quickness. Bowls were set before them. Long Fingers slurped his up and nodded his head in new-found strength.

  “I’ll do it,” was all he said.

  They shook hands. When Long Fingers left them, Connor turned his attention to the busty beauties making faces at their bowls of gray slime. “Afternoon, ladies,” he tipped his hat.

  The mother looked up and gave him the same face her bowl of soup had received. She stood suddenly and waved a hand at her daughter to follow. “Let’s go, Cynthia.”

  As they walked past the Bells, Delmar gave a low whistle and the brothers burst out in laughter. Connor slapped the table and motioned at the proprietor. Their luck had turned a corner. Enough to deserve a round of beers. In a couple day’s time Balum and Joe would be cut down by the gun of a scalpless freak. Once that was done, Connor thought, there were a couple of women he’d be paying a visit to. It hadn’t escaped his attention that throughout the entire negotiation with Long Fingers, the two women had stared in his direction as if nothing else in the world could be more interesting.

  15

  Balum stuffed a fresh gob of chaw in his cheek and leaned back against the top carriage. The Spencer wobbled across his knees. Beside him Joe was half-asleep at the reins. The Bell brothers were nowhere within sight, but Caleb stuck close to the stage anyway, for they knew that at any moment the brothers might show. They also knew that if the Bell brothers somehow got ahold of a good rifle they could pick off anyone who wandered too far from the stage.

  Balum spat into the grass and yawned. The constant worrying, along with missing a half night of sleep two out of every three days took its toll. So did Buford’s bellyaching. Eve
r since his brother’s night attack had ended in spectacular failure he’d ratcheted up his name-calling. Maybe it was a sign of Buford’s lack of confidence in his brothers. He called Caleb a big dumb nigger, Joe a half-breed bitch, and Balum a scared son of a whore. Every few hours he would challenge Caleb to a stand-up fight. In the evening he would do the same until Caleb finally stuffed a rag in his mouth.

  When they rolled into the town of Crenshaw, Balum couldn’t rid himself of Buford fast enough. They located the jailhouse and pulled Buford out by his underarms. He started up again with his insults, and Balum popped him in the lips with a clenched fist. Buford’s head jolted backwards. When he raised it again his lip was dribbling blood.

  The sheriff came out of the jailhouse to see what the fuss was about. He was thick throughout the torso in the way that older men sometimes get, and he wore a mustache that covered half his mouth. “What’s all this?” he said when he saw Buford bleeding in his chains.

  “His name’s Buford Bell,” Balum already had his fingers in his pocket and was taking out the affidavit. “We’re taking him to Texas. It’d be doing us a favor to house him here for the night.”

  The sheriff looked Buford over in mild disgust, then glanced at the affidavit Balum handed him. He read it and handed it back. “Bring him in,” he said.

  Inside, with Buford locked in the cell, Balum brought up the issue of the brothers.

  “How many you say there are?” said the sheriff.

  “Five.”

  “I’ll be damned. Must’ve been them.”

  “Who’s that?” said Balum.

  “Couple nights ago a local rancher was shot and killed along with his brother and son. Looked like a matter of a butchered calf. The folks who did it rode to his ranch house afterwards and killed the man’s wife. Stole their money from what I could tell. I figure there to be five of them. That’s what the tracks told me.”