It was through the refugees that he was put in contact with Con Reeder. Con Reeder had been running an underground for some time, smuggling fugitives and Unionist sympathizers through the lines. He was assembling a small group to go over the mountains. Calhoun was too weak to make the first trip but he fought hard to make himself ready for the second.
Con Reeder was a shrewd man. He knew that no matter how remote and treacherous a route might be, there was no way to avoid leaving a trail. His method was to move rapidly, at breakneck pace, sometimes doubling back on himself or wading, neck deep, across icy streams.
It worked. When they began climbing Cumberland Mountain they were almost safe. The mountain provided good cover and on the other side they would come down into Kentucky. Calhoun recalled how the exhausted men began to relax and almost enjoy themselves at the prospects of safety: properly cooked food, home-made whiskey and a bed to sleep in. But they never made it down the mountain.
‘The Confederates were waiting for us,’ Calhoun concluded. ‘They’d been tipped off. Carver was one of us, one of the group Reeder had put together, but I noticed at the time that he wasn’t there when they opened fire. I think Reeder must have been killed straight off. A couple of us managed to run but it was no use. I was the only one to come out alive.’
Grayson had been listening intently. He could see how much it cost his companion to recount the tale.
‘This Carver has something to answer for,’ he said. ‘If you’re right and he’s up in those mountains somewhere, what do you intend doin’ about it?’
Calhoun suddenly laughed. ‘You know, I just ain’t exactly sure.’
‘You’re ridin’ up there?’
‘Seems like it.’
‘You’re one man. What can you do against a whole nest of outlaws?’
‘You’re forgettin’ Cherokee,’ Calhoun replied.
The following day dawned bright and clear. Mary had arranged with Calhoun and her brother to eat breakfast at her café. She was looking just as pretty in a blue gingham dress and her dark hair was held back in a snood. The effect was to make her look a little older, and for the first time Calhoun noticed the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. He felt a sudden tenderness. The marshal’s shoulder was feeling sore but otherwise he was OK.
‘I hope you were comfortable last night,’ Mary commented.
It was the first time for a long while that Calhoun had slept between sheets.
‘I sure appreciate everything,’ he said a little awkwardly.
The marshal laughed. ‘Wait till you’ve tasted breakfast,’ he said.
He wasn’t exaggerating. Calhoun thought he had finished when he cleared his plate of eggs, bacon, steak, beans and hash browns. Then Mary reappeared with pancakes dripping with molasses and a fresh pot of strong black coffee. By that time a couple of townsfolk had come in and Mary was busy. Grayson glanced up at a clock on the back wall.
‘Should be about time for the stage,’ he said.
They got up and wandered down the street towards the stage depot. A little knot of people were gathered and inside the building the clerk was tying up a bag of letters. There was an air of expectancy, which grew as the minutes ticked by. A man in a dark suit and a fancy waistcoat pulled a watch out of his pocket and examined it. People were looking up for some sign of the stage’s approach. Eventually the clerk came out and approached the marshal.
‘She’s late,’ he said. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong.’
They waited a little longer and then the marshal turned to Calhoun.
‘I got a feelin’,’ he said. ‘Let’s you an’ me take a look.’
They moved over to the livery stable where Calhoun had left his horse. They saddled up, mounted their horses, turned down the runway and were soon out in open country. They rode at a steady lope for a while, following a clearly marked trail. The sun was getting hotter and black flies swarmed in the air. Grayson looked up and pointed.
‘Buzzards,’ he said.
Not long after that they came upon the coach, smashed and lying on its side. The bodies of the driver and guard were lying at a little distance. When they dismounted and looked inside they found three further corpses flung together; two men and a woman. There was no sign of the horses and the strongbox was missing together with the mail bag. Grayson bent over the bodies of the driver and the guard.
‘Look here,’ he said.
They had each been shot in the back of the head.
‘Cold-blooded execution,’ Calhoun snapped.
He went back to the coach and pulled at the door. It was jammed but after a considerable effort he succeeded in partly opening it. Between them Grayson and Calhoun dragged the bodies from the mangled wreckage.
‘This is the third time something like this has happened,’ Grayson said, ‘but previously there were survivors. There’s been nothin’ as bad as this.’
‘How much money was the stage carryin’?’
‘I’d have to check with the clerk, but a substantial amount.’
‘Those varmints must be gathering quite a store,’ Calhoun said. ‘Enough to fund somethin’ big, if that’s what they got in mind.’
‘That’s not all,’ the marshal replied. ‘There’s rumours of treasure still left up there. Could be why they chose the place.’
There was nothing to be done for the moment except return to town and send the undertaker out with his wagon. Just as they were about to leave Calhoun noticed something lying on the grass. It was a sheet of white paper which had been attached to the door but had fallen to the ground. Bending down, he picked it up and unfolded it.
‘What is it?’ Grayson said.
Calhoun read out a message which had been scrawled across the paper:
The town next time.
They mounted their horses and began to ride.
‘What do you think?’ the marshal said.
‘I think they mean it,’ Calhoun replied.
‘I guess we’d better treat it that way.’
A thought came into Calhoun’s head. ‘What’s the last town the stage would’ve stopped before this?’
‘Lone Gulch. There’s a relay station halfway between. Why do you ask?’
Before Calhoun could reply there came a flash of light followed by the reverberating roar of a rifle. Grayson’s horse went down, flinging its rider to the ground. At the same instant Calhoun slid from the saddle, dragging his horse down in the same movement so that it lay flat beside the marshal’s wounded bay. Sheltering behind them, they drew their guns, searching the terrain for their attacker.
‘See anything?’ Grayson snapped. The wound to his shoulder had started to bleed again and his mouth was drawn tight with pain.
There was plenty of cover nearby, enough to conceal several bushwhackers if they’d known what they were doing. But the fact that the shot hadn’t hit either of them suggested to Calhoun that they weren’t up against a professional. And he hadn’t seen any signs of hoofprints along the trail.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘He’ll give himself away.’
Seconds later there was a stab of flame from a patch of bushes and a shot whined nearby, kicking up dirt. Instantly Calhoun’s gun barked in reply.
‘Cover me,’ Calhoun said.
In a flash he was on his feet and running zigzag towards the bushes. Grayson’s gun beat a fusillade behind him and as he got closer he opened fire at the screen of vegetation. There was an answering shot and then movement as someone hidden behind the bushes got to his feet and began to run, flinging his rifle away as he did so. Calhoun held his fire and swerved away in hot pursuit.
Could do with Cherokee right now, he thought.
The man was no match for him, however, and as Calhoun steadily gained ground the man suddenly stopped and turned to meet his pursuer, his hands held high in the air.
‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ he screamed.
Not taking any chances, Calhoun threw himself upon the man and carried him to the ground.
The man gasped as air was driven from his body. Calhoun got to his feet and stood over him with his gun.
‘Grayson!’ he called. ‘I’ve got him!’
By the time the marshal arrived the man had recovered a little and he was staring up at them with a puzzled expression on his features. Calhoun’s face bore a similar look. The man didn’t look like any kind of outlaw. He was very young, fresh-faced and clean-shaven and he wore a set of fancy duds which looked out of place.
‘You ain’t the outlaws!’ he gasped.
‘I was about to say the same,’ Calhoun replied.
The man struggled to his feet and then he saw the marshal’s badge.
‘By Jiminy,’ he said. ‘Am I glad to see you.’
‘You’d better have a good story,’ Grayson snapped. ‘You shot my horse. Lucky for you he ain’t hurt too bad.’
‘I was on the stage,’ the youngster began. ‘I was firing at the varmints who attacked us when the door flew open and I fell out. I thought you were the outlaws.’ He paused as though he had run out of steam. He visibly sagged.
‘What happened to the others?’ he said.
The marshal shook his head.
‘There was nothin’ we could do,’ Calhoun added.
‘That was a real nice lady,’ the man mused.
‘Reckon we’d best get on back to town,’ Calhoun said. He turned to the marshal. ‘Your hoss up to carryin’ you?’
‘Like I say, he ain’t hurt bad.’
‘You can ride with me,’ Calhoun said to the newcomer. As they walked the young man introduced himself as Hiram Jasper Bingley.
‘That’s some name,’ Grayson said.
‘What you doin’ in these parts?’
‘Just qualified from law school. Everybody seemed to think there’d be a need for lawyers out West.’
‘Like a wool shirt in cow country,’ Calhoun remarked.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Bingley said. ‘My first stagecoach ride.’
‘Coyote Falls is a long way from anywhere. It ain’t much of a burg.’
‘My uncle runs the Crutch Bar spread. I’m stayin’ with him till I can fix myself up in town.’
Grayson stopped momentarily. ‘So old Jake Adams is your uncle! Well I’ll be danged.’
‘On my mother’s side,’ Bingley said.
When they reached town they left the horses at the livery stable. Bingley’s bullet had scorched the bay’s flank but it was nothing the ostler couldn’t handle. Grayson rousted out the undertaker; soon his wagon was trundling its way along the street. There was no sign of Bingley’s uncle at the stage depot.
‘Guess you could do with some feedin’,’ Grayson commented. They made their way to Mary’s café but it was closed. Grayson looked unsurprised. ‘Guess you’d best come on back with us.’
When they arrived at the house it was to find Mary in the outhouse bending over the cougar, which she had just fed.
‘I thought she might appreciate a bit of home cooking,’ she remarked. The expression on Bingley’s face was priceless.
‘They make everythin’ bigger out West,’ Calhoun said. ‘She ain’t nothin’ but a pussy cat.’
Chapter Two
For a few days there was quiet. Hiram Bingley had left for his uncle’s ranch. The doctor had been out to check on the marshal but his wounded shoulder was well on the way to recovery. Things were busy at Mary’s café and Calhoun would have left but for the message on the piece of paper and the fact that the marshal asked him to stay on.
‘I gotta feelin’ things are goin’ to blow apart real soon,’ Grayson said.
Truth was that Calhoun felt the same. ‘At least let me move out of the house,’ he said. ‘Mary must have plenty on her plate without me.’
‘Nonsense,’ Grayson replied. ‘In fact, you just try it and see her reaction.’
Calhoun wasn’t sure but he put off making a decision. At least while he stayed where he was the cougar didn’t present a problem.
The marshal called a meeting to put the situation to the townsfolk. He didn’t mention the message he and Calhoun had found because he didn’t want to cause a panic, but on the other hand both he and Calhoun felt that the time had come to take some precautionary measures. The meeting was not well attended but the results, if patchy, were soon in evidence as up and down the main street storekeepers began to board up their windows. At either end of the drag, at the approaches to town, carts and wagons were positioned so as to be ready to form barricades if they were needed. Nobody was too sure, though, of what to expect and some people openly ridiculed any suggestion that such measures might be necessary. Mary was particularly concerned because she realized that if it came to fighting her brother would be in the forefront and she was more grateful than ever that Calhoun was around. People were jumpy and Calhoun decided to take a ride to see if he could find anything more definite.
He rode out towards the Crutch Bar but before he was even near the place he could see that something was afoot. All along the boundary line fences were in process of being erected and already a considerable amount of open range had been enclosed. Posts had been placed at thirty-foot intervals and men were working with fence stretchers to bind the wire tight to the posts. Riding down the line he came upon a wagon stretching wire as it rolled.
‘Expectin’ trouble?’ he asked.
The foreman looked up. ‘Ain’t you the hombre with the cat?’ he said.
‘Hey, the one shot up those owlhoots in the saloon?’ another man said. ‘Man, that was some shootin’.’
Calhoun nodded. ‘Had no choice.’
‘Some cattle been disappearin’,’ the foreman said. ‘Figure it’s the same varmints.’ He bent down to fasten some wire to a boulder for extra support. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘A couple of the boys was out brush-poppin’. They seen a lot of riders gatherin’ in the foothills.’
‘Thanks,’ Calhoun replied. ‘Figure I might take a look that way.’ He turned his horse. ‘Give my regards to Hiram Bingley,’ he added over his shoulder.
The foreman looked puzzled as he rode away. It didn’t take him long to verify what the foreman had said. There was plenty of sign indicating that horsemen had been passing through. Topping a ridge, but being careful to avoid being skylined, he took a look through his field glasses. A big group of riders was camped beside a stream and they weren’t there for a revival meeting.
Things moved rapidly and back in Coyote Falls the townsfolk were as ready as they were ever going to be. From his vantage point on the roof of the Silver Star saloon Calhoun took stock of the situation. Most of the buildings in the main street had now been boarded up and wagons swung into position to blockade it at either end. At strategic intervals along the street and on the rooftops men were placed, volunteers who had some idea of how to use a gun. The streets themselves were deserted; all the women and children and those who for one reason or another were not fit or able to take part in the anticipated fighting having taken shelter in houses situated away from the main drag. Even so Calhoun felt some anxiety about Mary.
He checked his Army revolvers and Henry rifle, the rifle he had carried through the Civil War, and jacked shells into a new Winchester Model 1866. A nice weapon but relatively untried. Then he turned his attention to the trail leading out of town. He could see nothing untoward but suddenly his ears seemed to catch the distant sound of horses. The sounds died away and, listen as carefully as he might, Calhoun heard no more. He found that his throat was dry and he took a swig of water from a canteen.
There was something strange and unnatural about things. Time seemed suspended and an air of expectancy enveloped the town. The atmosphere was oppressive and on the western horizon dark clouds hung over the landscape. A flicker of lightning danced along the edge of the sky. Maybe it had been the distant storm that he had heard. A wind had developed, blowing clumps of tumbleweed along the empty street. A few window frames rattled and a dog began to bark. He took another swig from the canteen. Someth
ing soporific in the atmosphere made him feel heavy-headed and then he heard someone shout:
‘I think they’re coming!’
Instantly alert, he looked up and after a moment saw what the man had seen; a faint haze of dust which slowly resolved itself into a host of riders, bearing down on the waiting town. Calhoun glanced down at the barricade across the street below. A line of men with rifles was stationed behind it, prominent among them being Marshal Grayson.
The riders came on and Calhoun reckoned there were probably a dozen or more of them. Looking the other way, he saw another group of riders coming from the opposite direction. The outlaws had obviously divided their forces in order to hit the town on two fronts.
The nearer group slowed and came to a halt. The riders had seen the barricade drawn across the street. For a moment they hesitated but then they came on again. Calhoun had hoped they might stop to parley with the marshal. In the war the cavalry had been vital in getting from one place to another quickly, but they usually dismounted in order to fight. Not this bunch. Instead they fanned out but kept right on coming.
He raised his rifle as a fusillade of shots rang out from the approaching horsemen. At a signal from the marshal the men behind the barricades began to reply in kind and the whole place exploded in a crescendo of noise. Calhoun squeezed the trigger of his Winchester but in the uproar that now prevailed he could not tell whether his shot had been successful. A number of the charging horses were down but it made no difference to the impetus of the onslaught. Like a great curving wave the horsemen bore down on the barricade as its defenders fired off another round of bullets and then began to break for the shelter of the buildings in its rear.
Only the marshal and a few others remained as the wave of attackers finally burst upon the barricade. Calhoun was firing rapidly and now a fresh rain of fire exploded from behind the shutters of the buildings. A couple of horses went down in the street. Other horses were entangled in the barricade and men were firing pistols at close range.
Coyote Falls Page 2
