Bull's Eye Stage Coach

by Hall, Billy

  In minutes Walt Tighson and Jesse Wrigley rode into view. Obviously watching all around, they rode to the big cottonwood and dismounted. ‘Looks like we’re the first ones here,’ Walt observed.

  Jesse fished a watch from his vest pocket, opened the cover, looked at it, snapped it shut and put it back in his vest pocket. ‘The rest’ll show up right shortly,’ he assured.

  The trio in the boulders looked at each other with wide-eyed and growing excitement. Dwight silently mouthed to Belinda, ‘Go get the others. It’s time!’

  Wordlessly she nodded. Remaining crouched low enough to be sure that she couldn’t be seen from the outlaws’ location, she crept around the end of the ridge behind which their horses were tethered. She untied her horse and led him, carefully avoiding any rocks that would make enough sound to betray her, until she was well away from the others. Then she stepped into the saddle and followed the path they had carefully selected for a fast ride to summon the rest of the posse.

  She adjudged herself far enough to be out of sound’s range, and had started to kick her horse to a gallop when a rider appeared squarely in her path. A raspy voice stopped her cold.

  ‘Now would you look at who thinks she’s going to play Paul Revere!’

  She gasped, jerking her horse to a stop. Jarvis McCrae sat his horse, blocking her path. He grinned wickedly at her. ‘We meet again,’ he gloated.

  In spite of the grin, which she could only describe as ‘nasty’, he looked terrible. His sallow cheeks were sunken. His eyes were heavily shadowed, with dark bags beneath them. He had several days’ stubble. His hair, jutting from beneath his hat, was matted and tangled. His shirt hung on his shoulders as if it were two sizes too big for his frame.

  Before Belinda could react he reached out and grasped the reins of her horse. Jerking them out of her hand, he swayed slightly in the saddle, then recovered his balance. ‘Thought you was bein’ real smart, didn’t you? I spotted you yesterday, so I’ve been watching to see what you and that no-good marshal sweetheart of yours were up to. Now let me guess. They’ve figured out that everybody’s on their way to meet out here, so your job is to hurry back and get whoever else is waiting, right?’

  Her eyes, wide with fear, darted this way and that. When she failed to answer, he said, ‘I thought so. Well, sweetheart, I’ll tell you what Mac and Belinda are going to do. We’re going to go to a spot I’ve got all figured out, where we can watch that marshal of yours get himself killed thinking he has help coming that won’t show up, then you and me are going to take my share of that money and ride off into the sunset together. Unless, of course, you try to do something stupid like running or yelling or something. Then you’re going to die real sudden, and I’ll have to ride off into the sunset all by myself.’

  She knew with terrifying certainty that he was being totally honest. He had the reins of her horse. She could bail out of the saddle and run for it, but he would shoot her in the back without a second thought. If she let him lead her to the vantage point he obviously had already selected, she would be forced to watch the man she loved fail, because of her. He and Frank would wait as long as they could, then they would confront the gang, certain that she was bringing help. When that help didn’t come, desperately outnumbered they would certainly be killed.

  Despair washed over her. This time not even Dwight would be riding to her rescue. He would die with the rest. She was all alone. There was no way out.

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘Most of ’em are here.’

  ‘Yeah, an’ Belinda ain’t had time to get the rest.’

  ‘Let’s hope whatever they got cookin’ is gonna take a while.’

  Dwight and Frank spoke in soft whispers, even though a stiff breeze was blowing toward them. That breeze carried the outlaws’ voices clearly to them, but would have made it all but impossible for their own words to be overheard. They had been watching the activity as members of the outlaw gang assembled near the big cottonwood.

  ‘Someone’s comin’,’ Dwight hissed.

  He and Val crouched amongst the boulders, trying desperately to remain both silent and hidden, but hidden now from both directions. The soft scuffing of shoe soles on boulders grew closer.

  ‘Are you fellows there?’

  Relief erupted explosively from both Dwight and Frank. ‘That you, Val?’

  ‘Yes,’ the voice said.

  In seconds, the round top of Lindquist’s derby appeared, followed seconds later by the rest of his face. ‘Are they here yet?’ he asked in that same soft whisper.

  ‘Most of ’em,’ Dwight affirmed. ‘Seven, by my count.’

  ‘Who is still missing?’

  ‘McCrae.’

  ‘He may have died,’ Val suggested. ‘Either that or he’s unable to join the rest. I spotted him yesterday, and he looked awfully peaked.’

  ‘I thought I hit ’im at least once,’ Dwight affirmed.

  ‘Has the wagon showed up yet?’

  Dwight and Frank looked at each other, then back at the Pinkerton detective. ‘What wagon?’ Frank whispered.

  ‘The one they plan to haul the gold out of here in,’ Val informed them. ‘I’ve been watching the road coming from Headland, on a hunch. Today it paid off. I also know who the mastermind is, and he is coming after the gold.’

  Silence and suspense dangled together in the still air. Both men stared at Val, waiting for an explanation that he was in no hurry to give. Relishing their confusion and curiosity, he eased over to the spot amongst the boulders from which he could see the assembled outlaws.

  ‘It looks like they’re getting a poker game together,’ he whispered.

  Frank and Dwight put their curiosity on hold long enough to join him and confirm his guess. The outlaws had spread a blanket on the ground. They were all seated on it, and one was shuffling a deck of cards.

  The three eased back to a more secure spot. ‘What are they doin’?’ Frank pondered.

  ‘Waiting.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the wagon. They seem to know it’s coming today, but not how soon.’

  ‘They ain’t made any effort to dig up the gold, or whatever they need to do,’ Dwight observed.

  ‘Let’s move farther away,’ Frank urged, fearful that a sudden change of breeze would betray their presence to the outlaws.

  They moved cautiously back over the low ridge to where Val had left his horse. Then both men silently faced Lindquist, awaiting his explanation.

  As usual, the Pinkerton man sounded almost like a teacher lecturing his class. The impression always irritated Dwight, but he held his peace, waiting for the explanation. ‘They are not likely to do that until the wagon actually arrives. They wouldn’t want to have to abandon the location in a hurry with all that gold exposed. It is much too heavy to hide again in a hurry, should they need to do so.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Dwight admitted.

  ‘So who is it who’s coming?’ Frank demanded.

  Val grinned, obviously relishing his role. ‘Well, think about it,’ he lectured. ‘Whoever is behind this operation must be someone with both the ability to dispose of a massive amount of gold, and also an insider’s knowledge of the best time to launch a foray to purloin it.’

  ‘To do what?’ Frank demanded with a frown.

  ‘To poach it. Pilfer it. Steal it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So knock off the riddles and tell us who it is, before I get tired of your game and wrap a gun barrel over your head,’ Dwight threatened.

  Val’s grin widened. ‘Sorry about that,’ he lied. ‘Couldn’t resist a bit of teasing. The man I saw driving a wagon this way is none other than Hiram Birdwell.’

  Both men gasped. ‘The banker?’ Frank said.

  ‘The same,’ Val said. ‘It almost had to be him. He handles nearly all the gold coming from the mines, so it would be a simple matter for him to form a fictitious mining company, include the gold from that company with the other shipments, and collect all the revenues accrui
ng to it. He would become independently wealthy, with nobody ever any the wiser. Anybody my agency sent to investigate would waste all their time and effort searching for a huge cache of gold that would be securely in his vault the whole time, shipped out little by little.’

  ‘We’d best get back an’ keep our eyes peeled,’ Dwight ordered. He didn’t know why the cocksureness of the detective nettled him so much, but he had to keep a tight rein on his anger whenever they spent any amount of time talking.

  They were scarcely in place again when one of the outlaws jerked his head up. He moved swiftly and gracefully to his feet, the poker game forgotten. ‘Someone’s comin’,’ he said quietly.

  Nobody argued. Every man rose to his feet. Some moved away to positions of less exposure. Every man among them had a gun in his hand.

  The watchers heard the sounds as clearly as the outlaws had. The creaking and rattling of a wagon approached from the east. ‘I believe the gentleman has arrived,’ Val whispered.

  In minutes a wagon appeared, with Hiram Birdwell perched on the driver’s seat. Beside him sat one of the guards from the bank.

  ‘He brought a guard,’ Frank breathed. ‘That’s Slim Jenkins.’

  ‘I would wager two to one that a tragic accident is planned for Mr Jenkins before that gold gets back to Headland,’ Val guessed. ‘That way nobody alive will know that he has it.’

  A sudden flurry of activity gripped the assembled outlaws. Grabbing shovels that none of the three watchers had seen, they hurried to a large boulder some twenty-five feet from the cottonwood tree. Digging swiftly, they uncovered the cache of gold in minutes and began carrying it to the wagon. It took less than half an hour for it to be loaded.

  As it was, Birdwell stood beside the wagon. He placed a pistol on the wagon seat, just beside where he stood. He also carried a double-barreled shotgun, cradled loosely in his right arm.

  His guard, Slim Jenkins, also carried a shotgun, and wore two pistols. He stood behind the banker, with his back to him, so that it was impossible for anyone to approach from any direction without being in clear view of one or the other.

  ‘Takin’ no chances,’ Frank offered quietly.

  When the gold was loaded the outlaws lined up as if they were waiting to see a sideshow at a circus. To each man Birdwell handed a bundle of paper money. To a man, each stayed where he stood until he had counted it, then nodded and moved off.

  ‘Where’s them other guys?’ Frank worried. ‘We ain’t got much time. They’re gonna start headin’ out any minute.’

  ‘We seem to be one man short,’ Birdwell announced.

  ‘Who cares?’ one of the outlaws said. ‘I’m outa here.’

  Dwight noticed for the first time that Val carried the Colt revolving shotgun that he had shown him earlier in town. His own forty five was in his hand, as was Frank’s in his.

  ‘We have to move now,’ Val said, stepping out from behind the boulders.

  Swiftly Dwight and Frank ranged a few steps to either side of him. It took several seconds for the outlaws to spot them. Just as one of them did, and swore, Val yelled, ‘Throw up your hands, all of you! You are all under arrest.’

  Before the swiftest among them could get his gun clear of its leather, another voice bellowed, ‘Hold it right there! Nobody is arresting anybody!’

  All eyes swivelled to the new voice. Jarvis McCrae walked into the clearing, shoving Belinda ahead of him, one hand gripping the back of her dress, his gun in his other hand. ‘Hey, Marshal,’ Mac’s voice jeered, ‘it seems like we’ve done this once already.’

  Dwight swore helplessly.

  Mac laughed, relishing the moment. ‘It sure is nice of you to supply us a ticket out of here, Marshal,’ he taunted.

  He turned his attention momentarily to Birdwell. ‘I’ll be taking my cut now too, banker. Just toss it on the ground there.’

  Belinda’s eyes were glued on Dwight as if trying to send him some silent message. The signal was not lost on Dwight. ‘Drop!’ he yelled.

  The instant he yelled, his gun leaped from its holster into his hand. Belinda collapsed as if she had suddenly fainted. His hand still locked on the back of her dress, Mac was jerked slightly off balance. Dwight’s gun roared. Whatever was in Mac’s mind flew from the back of his skull, along with his life.

  Almost as one with the roar of Dwight’s forty-five, the first round bellowed from the barrel of the revolving shotgun in the hands of the Pinkerton detective. Its roar swallowed up the slightly less powerful report of Frank’s forty-four.

  Six shotgun blasts and nine rounds from two handguns were answered by close to a dozen frantic shots from the outlaws’ guns. The air was alive with whizzing bullets and buckshot, curses and screams, and the neighing of panicked horses, fighting against harnesses tethering them to a heavy wagon with its brakes firmly set.

  Then there was silence. Sudden, utter, overwhelming, breathless silence. Belinda lifted her face from where she had buried it against the ground. She saw the Pinkerton detective, the empty revolving shotgun at his feet, pistol in hand, looking around, watching for any sign of life from any of the outlaws.

  Beside him, Frank Singler lay on the ground. His head was up, and his gun was in his hand. His other hand gripped his lower leg. Blood trickled from the side of his head.

  Dwight was nowhere in sight. She jerked her eyes around frantically. Beside her the eyes of Hiram Birdwell stared sightlessly up from the ground at her. She jerked away from him, springing to her feet with a startled squeal, and whirled to look behind her.

  She saw Mac and Dwight at almost the same instant. Mercifully, Mac was lying on his back, so it was only the front of his face that showed. Just below the left eye a round black hole bore witness to the deadly aim of the man who had once again rescued her.

  Then her eyes focused on Dwight. His left arm dangled at his side, blood dripping from the ends of his fingers. His forty-five was in his right hand. She realized suddenly that she hadn’t seen him because he was standing directly over her, protectively, watching for any further threats.

  ‘You OK, Frank?’ Dwight asked.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Frank lied. ‘Took one in the leg, but I don’t think it’s all that bad.’

  ‘Lost a nick outa one ear, too, it looks like,’ Dwight observed.

  Frank lifted a hand to his head, then studied the blood smeared across his palm. ‘That’s gettin’ a mite close,’ he observed.

  ‘You OK, Lindquist?’

  ‘Quite well, yes, thank you,’ Val replied, sounding as if he were sitting in a parlor visiting with friends.

  ‘You handle that big shotgun like nothin’ I ever seen,’ Dwight marveled.

  ‘It fires quite rapidly, doesn’t it,’ Val agreed. ‘It requires great concentration to keep it moving as rapidly as one tends to squeeze the trigger.’

  Dwight couldn’t keep the awe from his voice. ‘They was all too surprised to move, for a couple o’ seconds. Then it looked like grain gettin’ mowed down with a sickle,’ he said. ‘I run outa anyone to shoot at afore I hardly got started.’

  ‘Honey! You’re hurt!’ Belinda realized suddenly.

  ‘Just nicked a bit,’ Dwight dismissed her concern.

  All four whirled at the sound of running horses approaching. The three members of the posse who were due to relieve Dwight, Val and Belinda thundered up the draw, guns drawn, obviously responding to the fusillade of gunfire.

  They reined in their horses in a cloud of dust, eyes jerking here and there, finally realizing it was all over.

  Belinda tore her eyes from them and looked once more at the dead outlaw who had used her as a hostage. She knew full well he had intended to use her for much more than that. She shuddered as she looked at his sightless eyes. She refused to look away. She wanted more than almost anything in that moment to be totally sure she need never fear him again.

  EPILOGUE

  They didn’t really think they needed to defend the cargo. After all, it appeared to be only a wagon, too
heavily laden with dead bodies. Visibly it was a veritable flood of business for the undertaker, Cornelius Janderslaag, when they got back to Headland. Even so, the members of the posse ranged protectively before and behind the wagon the whole way.

  With what had been loaded on to Belinda’s horse, all the stolen gold had been recovered. It lay incognito beneath the macabre load of death, en route back to its owners.

  Nearly all the paper money was recovered as well, all packed into the outlaws’ pockets, bedrolls and saddle-bags. Along with it was the considerable amount of paper money that Birdwell had brought with him to pay off the members of the gang. Because of that added cash, the posse brought considerably more back into Headland than the outlaws had taken out of it. The excess amount was divided between the widows of the men killed in the robbery. It wouldn’t replace their lost husbands, but it would provide them with a comfortable living for a goodly while.

  The wedding was a quiet, modest affair, in the pastor’s parlor in Headland. The pastor’s wife and Val Lindquist served as witnesses. Both bride and groom, his left arm still bandaged, wanted only to have some private and quiet time together. Maybe fifty years or so, for starters, Dwight figured.

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