Arkansas Smith

by Jack Martin

  ‘Do as he says,’ the sheriff again pleaded. ‘It’s the only way, John. We’ve got no choice.’

  ‘I own you,’ Lance snarled.

  Suddenly, before anyone could react, Lance produced a highly polished derringer from his sleeve and shot the sheriff directly in the chest. The .410 slug was deadly effective at such close range and the sheriff’s chest opened up in a burst of crimson spray as he was thrown backwards to come down hard against the cabin wall.

  The sheriff slid to the ground and he looked down at his bloodstained shirt in disbelief. He brought a hand to the wound as if willing it to not be there.

  ‘You shot me,’ he said, incredulously.

  John Lance fought to keep his horse under control and he stared back at the sheriff as if not believing himself what had just happened.

  ‘You shot me!’ the sheriff said again. Somehow he’d always known his association with John Lance would end this way. He cursed the day he had first met the rancher. Then he felt a tremendous wave of pain, but also a great feeling of release, as his heart slowly ground to a halt.

  With that he was dead.

  Lance fired the derringer again, but this time he was aiming at Arkansas.

  It was then that all hell broke loose.

  NINETEEN

  Between the second explosion from the derringer and the sheriff being thrown backwards time seemed to stand still.

  Arkansas heard the click of guns as triggers were squeezed and hammers pulled back. He pulled his own Colt from leather and let off a wild shot before leaping for the doorway.

  He collided with Rycot and both men tumbled to the floor.

  Arkansas rolled and kicked the door closed just as the wood splintered and a bullet screamed past his head. It had been so close that he had felt the air warm up as it went on its way into the wall behind him with a burst of dust and splinters.

  Will was at the window, firing with the rifle through the opening. He let off two shots and then turned quickly away from the window just in time as the glass exploded and shards went every which way. Immediately he worked the action of the rifle and turned back to the window, hit the remainder of the glass out and fired again.

  ‘Got one,’ he said and watched a man thrown backwards off his panicked horse.

  The flimsily built cabin was scant protection against the onslaught of bullets and holes suddenly appeared in the walls, sending tiny splinters onto the air. Arkansas got to his feet, checked Rycot. He was fine, other than being terrified.

  Arkansas ran towards the window. Again fortune shone on him and another bullet tore through the wall and passed by even closer than the last. It had been so close he could have shaken hands with it and wished it well on its merry way.

  He got to the window and grinned at Will.

  ‘Just like old times,’ he said, and quickly fired through the window. One of his shots found a target and he saw a man throw up his arms and slide from his startled horse. His legs got tangled up in the saddle and the galloping horse dragged him, but he didn’t seem to mind any seeing as he was already dead. The second shot went wide of a mark.

  Outside Lance’s men returned fire and Will and Arkansas had to fall to the floor and lay prone while bullets passed through the walls as if they were butter. Rycot still hadn’t got up from the floor and he could see no reason to bother at the present moment.

  ‘This ain’t good,’ Rycot yelled, but the roar of gunfire drowned his words out. He buried his face in the floor and placed his arms over his head as wood splinters and lead flew overhead. If he ever saw hell then he was sure that this was pretty much what it would be like.

  ‘You OK?’ Arkansas asked.

  With a grimace, Will rolled onto his back and started reloading the rifle.

  ‘Never felt better,’ he yelled. ‘Forgotten how good it felt to have a damn good fight.’

  ‘Good? This ain’t what I call good,’ Rycot yelled. The old man was obviously better suited to tending horses than battling gunmen. ‘You two is plumb loco if you’re asking me.’

  A large section of the door imploded as someone outside let off a shotgun.

  ‘Ready?’ Arkansas nodded at Will.

  ‘Yeah,’ Will said. ‘But just help me up.’

  They both understood each other and the tactic they were about to try was second nature to them. They had done it so many times in the past that neither needed to outline their plans to the other.

  Arkansas reached out and grabbed Will beneath his arm. They both got to their knees and knelt besides the window.

  ‘After three,’ Arkansas said, and held tighter beneath his friend’s arm. ‘One.’

  A bullet smashed into a picture on the wall behind and it fell to the floor.

  ‘Two.’

  Rycot’s whimpering grew louder and he positively screamed as the shotgun blew in a large section of the wall.

  ‘Three …’

  The two men came upright as one and both started shooting from their respective positions, neither of them aimed but instead shot repeatedly in opposite directions before, still shooting, and screaming like banshees they each brought their aim towards dead centre. As they moved they created a wide line of fire and the men outside had to pull back.

  Arkansas had emptied one of the Colts and Will had used up all seven his rifle had to offer. Arkansas let off three shots in quick succession while Will reloaded and then as soon as the older man had resumed firing through the window, he ducked back and reloaded both Colts.

  ‘We got them on the run,’ Will yelled, delight evident in his voice. He was enjoying each and every moment of the chaos that surrounded him.

  Throughout all this Rycot felt it prudent to remain hugging the floorboards, but he reconsidered when a bullet kicked up dust from the floor only inches away from his left leg. He yelped and with surprising agility got to his feet and ran across to the bedroom.

  ‘They’re running,’ Will whooped with delight. ‘We scared them away.’ He let off a shot for good luck and in the distance saw another of Lance’s men fall from his horse.

  ‘We spanked them good,’ Rycot said, and emerged from the bedroom. He ran over to the window and peered at what looked like a battlefield. After the chaos of only moments ago everything was eerily silent. ‘How many of the varmints did we get?’

  ‘If any of them are hiding in the bedroom,’ Arkansas said, ‘I’m sure you got them good.’

  He walked over to the door and went outside with Will and Rycot following closely behind.

  ‘Four of them,’ Rycot said. ‘We got four of them.’

  ‘Five more dead,’ Will said, and looked down at the sheriff.

  The lawman looked back at him from lifeless eyes.

  There were three more men dead outside the cabin and another body could be seen some thirty feet away where he had finally fallen from his terrified horse.

  John Lance didn’t appear to be among the slain.

  In the distance, a thick dust cloud could be seen, thrown up by the retreat of Lance and his men. Considering only ten minutes or so ago they had been so keen to take possession of this place, they were sure in a damn hurry to get away.

  ‘What you going to do now?’ Will asked, feeding fresh shells into his rifle.

  Arkansas allowed his eyes to drift over the battlefield his friend’s land had become. Five men killed here today and he knew there would be more before all this was over. And for what? So John Lance could own a little more land than he already owned, so that he could put his name to yet another spread. It was all a senseless waste and it made Arkansas sick to the stomach.

  If the West was ever going to become a safe and decent place to live, to raise a family, to run a business, then people like John Lance had to be eliminated and taken out of the running. If this new United States of America was ever to prosper and realize its full potential then John Lance, and others of his kind, had to be removed from the foundations before greatness could be built.

  When Arkansas Smith ha
d escaped that hangman’s noose back in Reno it became his duty to eradicate the John Lances of this world.

  ‘I’ve got to go after Lance,’ he said, and bent and pulled the star from the sheriff’s shirt. He pinned it on his own chest and rolled and lit a quirly. ‘Guess this means I’m the law around here. Least for the moment.’

  TWENTY

  Will insisted on going with Arkansas. He’d been fine during the battle of only moments ago and, he pointed out; he’d had worse injuries than this gut wound which had all but healed in any case. Rycot, on the other hand, insisted on riding back into town and passing on the news of the sheriff’s murder. He’d then get up a group of the town’s men and bring them out to Lance’s place to assist in the arrest of the varmint.

  Arkansas, in no mood to argue with either man, simply nodded.

  They had then rounded up one of the dead men’s horses and Will had groaned as he mounted it, but he managed to do so without any assistance. He clutched his stomach and took several deep breaths.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Ain’t nothing more than a dull ache.’

  ‘Come on then,’ Arkansas said and turned the sorrel. He looked back over his shoulder at Rycot who was standing beside the sheriff’s body. ‘Take his weapons back into town. Let folk know what happened and start looking for a new sheriff.’

  Rycot nodded. He was eager to get going, having experienced enough action for one day.

  One entire lifetime, for that matter.

  ‘You ready now?’ Will asked. ‘At this rate Lance will have died of old age before we get to him.’

  ‘Sure,’ Arkansas said, and slid his Spencer into the saddle boot.

  ‘Just like old times,’ Will said with a smile, and then, as he had so many times in the past, he brought a hand down hard on his horse’s rump and yelled, ‘Rangers ride!’

  ‘Like old times.’ Arkansas agreed and spurred the sorrel into a gallop.

  As soon as they reached his ranch John Lance had ordered Jake, his foreman, to get every man who could shoot armed up with a rifle and six-gun, and ready for Arkansas Smith when he came riding in.

  He wanted the man dead.

  Whatever else happened he wanted that man dead.

  Then he had gone straight into the house where Rebecca confronted him. He hadn’t seen much of her since the incident with Jim. She’d run to her room and refused to speak to him and at the time that had pretty much suited him. She didn’t understand what had to be done in business. There were men who would trample a weak man and take everything he owned. This was a savage land and the only way to prosper was to constantly expand, and building respect from fear did that.

  Rebecca looked at him and from his agitated manner she could see that he was troubled.

  ‘What have you done now?’ she asked.

  ‘Leave it,’ he commanded and made to go past her but she stood defiant and blocked his way.

  ‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘Last night a man was killed in this house, murdered at your orders. Now what have you done?’

  ‘Daughter, I am telling you to stand aside.’

  ‘No,’ Rebecca said. Last night things had changed between them and they would never be the same again. In fact she had already made up her mind. She was leaving, turning her back on her father and the past. She would never return.

  ‘Move.’ Firm. Lance looked at his daughter in a way he never had before.

  She shook her head.

  Lance brought up a hand and slapped his daughter so hard that she was knocked off her feet. He grabbed her by the back of her hair and pulled her, protesting all the way, up the stairs and across the landing to her room. He kicked the door open and then threw her, sobbing, onto the bed.

  ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ he said and closed and locked the door.

  Lance ran back down the stairs and went into the large dining-room at the rear of the ranch house. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and tore the cork stopper free. He took a large gulp straight from the bottle and took it with him back into the small room that served as his home office.

  He went to the window and looked out to see that Jake had gathered together over a dozen men. He counted thirteen in all. He took another huge gulp from the whiskey and then stumbled out into the hall. Once there he paused to take down his Sharps carbine from the wall and then went outside.

  ‘Men,’ he yelled and swayed on his feet. ‘I’ll give a one hundred-dollar bonus to the man who kills Arkansas Smith.’

  ‘We’ll get him, Mister Lance,’ Jake said. ‘Don’t you worry none about that.’

  ‘I won’t worry,’ Lance said. He was starting to slur his words and he had to hold onto the doorframe to stop himself from falling. He took yet another drink of the whiskey and then wiped his lips on the back of the sleeve.

  ‘I want that bastard dead!’ he yelled.

  ‘We’ll get him,’ Jake repeated and then raised his hands for the men to cheer in support. They had to get Lance inside. Like this, he would be a liability when a fight started and more likely to kill himself than anyone else.

  ‘Good,’ Lance said, and punched the air. For a moment it looked as if he was going to fall over but then he squinted his eyes and pointed. ‘Look, here they come.’

  Jake looked over his shoulder and sure enough he saw the men coming. They were riding at speed across the flatlands that led up to Lance’s ranch.

  There were only two of them: they were vastly outnumbered.

  ‘Kill the bastards,’ John Lance yelled, and then disappeared back into the ranch house.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Lance’s ranch house was a large grand-looking structure, built with a mixture of Spanish and English influences. The lower section of the wall was made from adobe blocks but the upper sections were constructed from local lumber. There was a sloping roof on the main ranch house but the outbuildings, although sharing the same basic style, were flat-roofed.

  It was not the best place meet an enemy since there were too many places where a man could remain concealed. Arkansas knew this from his previous visit and he slowed his horse almost to a halt just before he got into rifle range.

  He motioned for Will to do likewise.

  ‘How many men do you think we’re up against?’ Will asked.

  Arkansas squinted against the sun glare and stared at the sprawling ranch house and its surrounding buildings. It looked quiet – deserted, but he knew that would not be the case. No doubt Lance’s men were concealed, waiting to catch them in a deadly crossfire as they rode in.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘It’s a shame we ain’t got more men,’ Will said, and then took the makings from his shirt and rolled and lit a quirly. He blew a thick stream of smoke out between his teeth before asking, ‘How do you want to play this?’

  ‘Can I have some of that Durham?’ Arkansas asked, ignoring the question, and leaned across and took the leather pouch from his friend. He skilfully constructed a smoke and took a sulphur match to it.

  For a few moments they sat there, smoking and watching the Lance place. Still there was no movement. The place shimmered in the late morning sunshine and could very well have been a painting for all the movement evident. Even the landscape surrounding it seemed to be as still as an artist’s impression.

  ‘Remember that time we went up against Jack Giles’s gang?’ Arkansas asked.

  ‘Sure do.’ Will nodded and flicked the remains of his quirly away. ‘Down in Lincoln.’

  ‘Well, there were nine of them and we’re still here. They ain’t.’

  Jack Giles and his gang had been terrorizing folk along the Santa Fe Trail, robbing and murdering with seeming impunity from the law. There had been nine of them that night in Lincoln when the two Texas Rangers rode in in search of one of the gang members who was wanted back in Texas for the murder of a sheriff. As Arkansas had said it had been nine against two and yet when the dust had settled and the cordite cleared from the air it was only the tw
o Rangers who remained standing.

  ‘And you want to handle this the same way?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Arkansas said. ‘We’ll take the fight to them. They won’t be expecting that. Then we get down behind cover as soon as possible. Then we’ve got a chance of spotting who we’re up against.’

  ‘You ain’t forgot your Ranger training,’ Will said, with a wry smile. He had that old feeling that preempted a battle, that mix of adrenaline and fear. It made him feel alive.

  ‘Once a Ranger,’ Arkansas said with a grin, ‘always a Ranger.’

  Without another word they moved off at a slow trot towards the ranch house. They were both ready to set their horses off in opposite directions should a shot ring out. Each knew what the other would be thinking and they operated as a single entity, joined by their shared experiences of all the times they had faced certain death together and triumphed. They were each an extension of the other and both moved like the well-oiled workings of a revolver.

  ‘After three,’ Arkansas said.

  They each slid their rifles from their respective saddle boots and took the reins of their horses tight in one hand.

  ‘One.’

  The two men looked at each other for a moment and nodded their understanding.

  ‘Two.’

  They led their horses apart so that although side-by-side, they had in fact increased the space between them.

  ‘Three …’ Arkansas said, let off a shot and, taking the reins in his teeth, filled his free hand with a Colt and started galloping in a zigzag fashion towards Lance’s place.

  Will did likewise and between them they kept the hot lead flying.

  Fire was returned, but both Arkansas and Will made difficult targets as they jostled back and forth on their horses. It was Arkansas who reached the gates to the stockade first and he brought the sorrel into a jump that easily cleared the fence. Will came in directly behind him but his horse clipped the fence and the beast landed awkwardly, sending him crashing to the hard ground.