One of the last to leave took aim on the man leading the charge and fired. His ball took Laz in the chest and slammed him backward to land spread-eagled on his back in a patch of snow.
Some of the men nearby walked over to stare down at Laz, and almost fainted when he shook his head and sat up, a look of wonder on his face.
“Laz, boy, you awright?” Billy Manright asked around a plug of tobacco in his cheek.
Laz put his hand to his chest and pulled his father’s Bible out of his pocket. Imbedded in it was the bullet meant to take Laz’s life. At that moment, surrounded by dead and dying men, inhaling the stink of cordite and sulphur and blood and excrement, Lazarus Cain knew he’d been chosen by God for some important purpose.
“God saved me, boys!” Laz shouted. “He wants me to kill some more Yanks ’fore I die!”
The men gathered around him shouted and yelled, and they all turned to finish their attack, completely routing the superior Yankee forces that had them pinned down.
After the battle, Lazarus Cain received a promotion and a commendation. Before the war was to end, he would make colonel and lead his own troops into battle, always carrying his Bible with the bullet in it.
After that traitor to the cause, Robert E. Lee, surrendered, Lazarus and his band of men continued to fight, raiding towns sympathetic to the Yankees, killing and pillaging, looting and burning, until there was no place in the country they could go without being hunted. They were wanted in virtually every state and yet they continued to fight, even after forgetting what they were fighting for and who their enemy was. It became a way of life for them, and as his men got killed or captured Lazarus replaced them with men equally bloodthirsty and dangerous....
* * *
This thought brought him fully awake, and he looked around him at the men riding with him. On his right hand was his second in command, Blackie Jackson. Five feet ten inches in height and weighing over two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, Blackie had hands like hams and arms thicker than most men’s necks. He was an ex-blacksmith from a small town in Texas. He had come to ride with Lazarus after catching his wife with another man. He’d worked on the man’s head like it was a horseshoe, and when he finished with him had turned to his wife, sticking her head in his coal pit until it had burned to ashes. He was a man who liked to fight with his hands, and had never in his life been beaten.
On Lazarus’s left rode Tom “Behind the Deuces” Cartwright. An ex-gambler, Tom got his nickname from his habit of betting heavily at faro whenever he was dealt two deuces. Physically, he was a small man with a rat-like face and a pencil mustache, skinny of frame with greasy, black hair that was thinning on top. Sensitive about his balding head, thinking he was a ladies’ man, he rarely took his hat off. His favorite weapons were a derringer two-shot .44 he carried in his vest and a knife hidden in his boot. Though for long range he used a Winchester rifle, he much preferred the derringer, stating he liked to see the look in a man’s eyes when life left him.
Behind Cartwright rode Curly Joe Ventrillo. Of Italian descent with dark, curly hair, he was twenty years old and a favorite with girls and women of all ages, having a baby face that was very handsome. His good looks hid his propensity for heavy drinking and violence toward women. This began on the owlhoot trail after cutting up a prostitute’s face when he couldn’t perform one night after getting drunk. He soon discovered he liked rough sex and hurting females, and repeated the act every chance he got.
On the other side of the group was Pig Iron Carlton, ex-professional fisticuffs champion. He had been running from the law since beating two men to death in a barroom brawl. Tall, muscular, he had hands and knuckles covered with scar tissue from his many bare-knuckled fights, so he couldn’t hold a pistol very well. He favored a Winchester .44/.40 rifle and a sawed-off 10-gauge shotgun for close-in work. He wasn’t particularly mean, and only killed when forced to by circumstances. His cauliflower ears and the scar tissue around his eyes and his oft-broken nose made him look frightful—and no man dared laugh at his appearance.
Riding next to Carlton was Jeremy Brett, an Englishman relatively new to America. Jeremy talked with a heavy British accent, and his dress was very dapper—a bowler hat and dark suit covered with a black duster while on the trail. Soft-spoken, he used a shoulder holster with a Smith and Wesson American sheriff’s model. 44 caliber pistol. No one knew why he’d chosen to ride the owlhoot trail, as he wouldn’t speak of it and became extremely violent if pushed on the matter.
The last of Lazarus’s lieutenants was King Johannson. A big, fair-haired, blue-eyed Swede farmer from up in Minnesota, he was borderline mentally retarded. Though his mind was slow he was very quick with his guns and could be very mean when he was upset, going into violent rages if crossed. At other times he was like a small child, sweet and mild-tempered. He carried a shotgun on a sling around his shoulders and a long, machete-type knife in a scabbard on his belt, the blade of which was rusty from the blood of his victims. He never wiped the sword-like instrument off after using it.
There were another fifteen or so men at any one time riding with Lazarus, each and every one as mean and dangerous as the next. They had no real plan and no real destination. The gang rode wherever they wanted and took whatever they needed. So far there hadn’t been anyone brave enough, or good enough, to stand against them.
Lazarus had no compunction about killing anyone who crossed him. In his mind he could do no wrong, since he’d been personally chosen by God. If by chance he happened to kill an innocent man or woman, he felt they would be rewarded by God and taken to heaven. He didn’t have to feel guilt since he was sending them to a better place. On the other hand, if someone deserved to die God would send them to hell, and Lazarus was just doing God’s work for Him.
“Hey, boss, looks like there’s a town up ahead,” Blackie said, interrupting Lazarus’s reverie.
Lazarus glanced down at the weather-beaten sign next to the road. “Fontana?” he said. “I don’t remember a town by that name on the map.”
“Me neither, Lazarus,” said Tom “Behind the Deuces.”
Lazarus shrugged. “Well, boys, let’s ride on in and see what this Fontana’s like.”
As they rode down the center of the town’s main street, they were greeted by broken-down, rotting buildings and boardwalks that’d seen better days.
“Damn, looks like a ghost town,” said Curly Joe.
“Nope,” answered Pig Iron Carlton. He pointed up ahead. “There’s some hosses outside that saloon.”
Sure enough, there were three horses reined to a post in front of a saloon with a faded, hand-lettered sign hanging askew over the door—DOG HOLE.
“Sounds like my kind of place,” said Tom “Behind the Deuces.” “Wonder if they got a faro game.”
“Hell, I wonder if they got any whiskey,” said Blackie. “Place looks pretty rundown.”
The gang dismounted and walked into the saloon. A man behind the counter had a silver star on his chest and a dark top hat on his head.
Lazarus, upon seeing the badge, placed his hand on his pistol butt. “Are you the local sheriff?” he asked the man.
The man laughed, pointing at his badge. “Hell, yes. I’m the sheriff, the mayor, the dogcatcher, and the bartender. In fact, I’m just about the whole damn town.”
Lazarus relaxed, seeing the man was no real lawman. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Bob Blanchard. You men come on in and have a seat. There’s plenty of whiskey and beer, though not much food.”
“You got any women?” asked Curly Joe, a lecherous gleam in his eyes.
Blanchard smiled. “Oh yes. I’ve got a couple.” He looked over his shoulder and then leaned forward and whispered, “They ain’t much to look at, but they’ll get the job done, if you know what I mean.”
As he spoke, a woman walked out of a room upstairs and leaned over the railing, smiling a gap-toothed smile. She weighed at least two hundred pounds, and her hair looked as if some
one had pulled part of it out of her scalp.
“They’ll get the job done, all right,” Tom “Behind the Deuces” said, “after about a quart of whiskey, maybe.”
Curly Joe grinned. “I don’t need no whiskey, at least not first . . . maybe later.” He started up the stairs.
“Curly Joe,” Lazarus said, his voice hard.
“Yeah, boss?”
“I don’t want any trouble, not until we’re ready to leave. You understand me?”
Curly Joe, a disappointed look on his face, shrugged. “All right.”
Lazarus turned to Blanchard. “Set up whiskey for all my men. Then you can tell me what happened to this town.”
After Blanchard had set out bottles of whiskey on each of the tables he leaned on the bar, absentmindedly wiping it with a dirty rag as he talked.
“Town was founded by a man named Tilden Franklin a number of years ago after gold was discovered here. He named it after a Mexican girl he once knowed.”
Lazarus’s interest was piqued. “Gold? They discovered gold here?”
“Yeah, only most of this valley belonged to a man named Jensen, Smoke Jensen. And he didn’t particularly care to have a bunch of miners running around on his land lookin’ for gold.”
“So what happened?”
Blanchard shrugged. “Franklin brought in a gang of toughs. Some of the meanest men in several states came here to help him take the valley away from Jensen.”
“And did they?”
Blanchard shook his head. “Naw. Jensen called in a bunch of old gunfighters, men most people thought were long dead, an’ they had one of the biggest gunfights in history right here in Fontana. Streets ran red with blood, I’m told.”
“Must have been something to see.”
“I guess. I weren’t here myself, but those who survived either left town, or were carried out on boards.”3
“Where did the ones who left go?”
Blanchard pointed south. “On down the road a ways, to a town Jensen started, called Big Rock, Colorado.”
“And the gold?”
Blanchard leaned forward, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “Still here, I reckon. Since then, no one’s had the courage to try and dig it outta the ground, ’cause they know Jensen’d be on ’em like ticks on a hound dog if’n they did.”
Lazarus turned and leaned back, his elbows on the bar. “You don’t say? Mr. Blanchard, do you have a telegraph in this town?”
“Yes sir. I forgot to mention, I’m also the chief telegraph operator.”
4
Sally felt Cal’s pulse, a worried look on her face.
“I don’t like the way Cal looks, Smoke. I have a feeling you’d better ride on ahead and have Doc Spalding ready to operate as soon as we get there.”
Smoke didn’t question Sally’s expertise. She’d treated more bullet wounds than most doctors, a good many of them on him.
He grabbed Joker’s reins, which were tied to the rear of the wagon, and pulled the animal alongside. He didn’t dare take the time to stop their progress toward Big Rock, so he jumped into the saddle from the rear of the buckboard. He gave Sally a smile for encouragement, then leaned over Joker’s head and spurred him into a full gallop toward town.
* * *
Smoke rode into Big Rock as fast as his horse could run. As he passed the sheriff’s office, Monte Carson stepped out the door and pushed his hat back on his head, watching Smoke race by, a quizzical look on his face.
When Smoke reined up in front of Dr. Cotton Spalding’s office, Monte came running, knowing something bad had happened.
Smoke jerked the door open, startling several women and two children who were waiting to see the doctor.
He touched his hat, mumbled a quick apology, then stepped to the consulting room door. Restraining his first impulse to burst through the door, Smoke tapped lightly instead.
After a moment, Cotton opened the door, his sleeves rolled up and a frown on his face.
“What is it?” he asked, then noticed it was Smoke knocking on the door, and the anxious look on his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Smoke. Didn’t know it was you.”
“That’s all right, Doc. But Cal’s been hurt real bad, took a bullet in the chest and the shoulder.”
“Oh!”
“Sally says to tell you it’s in his lung, an’ he’s lost a lot of blood. She says you need to operate as soon as they get here.”
“Well, if Sally says it, then it must be serious.”
He stepped into the waiting room and said, “I’m sorry, ladies. I have an emergency coming in that’s going to need surgery. There’s no need for you to wait here. Why don’t you come back in a couple of hours?”
As the women and children left, he turned back into his consulting room. Smoke looked over his shoulder and saw a man bent over the table, his buttocks exposed and showing a bright red lump on one cheek.
“Earl, I’m afraid I’m going to have to lance that boil later. I’ve got an emergency coming in.”
Earl straightened up, looking angry. “Look here, Doc. I’m in pain, and I want this boil cut now! The other can wait his turn.”
Cotton put his hand in front of Smoke, who’d started through the door with his fists clenched.
“Earl, I’ve got a young boy with two bullets in him, one in his chest,” Cotton said in a low, even tone, not a trace of anger or annoyance in it. “He’s gonna die if I don’t operate right away. Do you really want me to make him wait his turn?”
Shamefaced, Earl lowered his gaze, his expression softening. “No, of course not, Doc. It’s just that this damned carbuncle is driving me crazy.”
Cotton walked to the medicine cabinet and took out a small bottle. “Here, Earl. Take this laudanum. Two sips every hour or so and you won’t feel the pain. Come back in a couple of hours and I’ll fix you up permanently.”
Earl pulled up his pants and took the bottle. “Thanks, Doc, and I’m awful sorry ’bout your friend, mister. I didn’t mean nothing by what I said before.”
Smoke nodded, tempted to smile in spite of the circumstances.
Just then, Sheriff Monte Carson came into the office. “Hey, Smoke. What’s going on?” he asked, a concerned look on his face.
Smoke and Monte Carson had become very good friends over the past few years. Carson had once been a well-known gunfighter, though he had never ridden the owlhoot trail.
When Tilden Franklin hatched his plan to take over the county and dig up most of the gold that had recently been discovered for himself, he’d hired Carson to be the sheriff of Fontana, a town just down the road from Smoke’s Sugarloaf spread. Carson went along with the man’s plans for a while, ’til he couldn’t stomach the rapings and killings any longer. Then he’d put his foot down and let it be known that Fontana was going to be run in a law-abiding manner from then on.
Franklin sent a bunch of riders in to teach the upstart sheriff a lesson. The men killed Carson’s two deputies and seriously wounded him, taking over the town. In retaliation, Smoke had founded the town of Big Rock, and he and his band of aging gunfighters cleaned house in Fontana.
When the fracas was over, Smoke offered the job of sheriff of Big Rock to Monte Carson. Monte married a grass widow and settled into the job as if born to it. Neither Smoke nor the citizens of Big Rock ever had cause to regret his taking the job.
“Cal’s been shot, Monte.”
“Is it bad?”
“About as bad as it can be and him still be alive.”
“Any idea who did it?”
Smoke shook his head. “He woke up long enough to say it was Ichabod Crane, but I don’t know what he meant by that.”
“Ichabod Crane?”
“A character in a story by Washington Irving,” Cotton called from the next room. “Tall, skinny, with a prominent Adam’s apple, as I recall.”
Monte pursed his lips. “You think that’s what he meant, Smoke? Tryin’ to describe the fellow for us?”
“Possibly, but I
’m more concerned with saving his life right now. I’ll get to the man who did this after it’s over, one way or another.”
Monte nodded. He knew Smoke didn’t let anyone harm a friend of his, not without making them pay dearly for it.
“Come on, Smoke,” Cotton called from his consulting room. “You can help me set up for the surgery.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Monte.”
“Sure, come on by the office. Meanwhile, I’ll be goin’ through some posters, see if I can find the galoot who did this.”
Smoke walked into the consulting room, and Cotton led him through a rear door into his operating room—surgery, as he called it.
There were windows on every side of the room to let as much light in as possible, and two large lanterns in sconces on each wall. In the middle of the room was a long table with a pad on it. There were straps for arms and legs, for those occasions when it wasn’t possible to give an anesthetic.
“Smoke, fill that basin with carbolic acid and dump that tray of instruments into it, will you?”
“Carbolic acid? What’s that for?”
“There’s this man in Austria, named Semmelweis, who says the reason wounds get infected is due to contamination with small organisms, called bacteria.”
Smoke didn’t look up as he filled the basin from a large bottle of liquid, turning up his nose at the strong astringent smell. “Uh huh. I’ve never seen any small animals in wounds with pus, unless you’re talking about maggots.”
“No, these organisms are too small to be seen with the naked eye. You need a microscope. Anyway, Semmelweis says if doctors would wash their hands and instruments in carbolic acid, and wash wounds with soap and water, it would cut down on the number of infections and save a lot of lives.”
“And you believe him?”
Cotton shrugged as he laid out dressings and sutures in preparation for the operation.
Guns of the Mountain Man Page 3
