END OF THE ROAD
“Leave us something to buy food and shelter,” Travis Grant pleaded. “You’ve got the money in the strongbox. Isn’t that enough?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dawson said. “You ain’t gonna need no money.” He casually aimed his .44 at the frightened man and pulled the trigger. The sudden report of the firearm startled bandits and victims alike. Mary Bishop couldn’t suppress a cry of horror as the unfortunate victim’s head jerked sickeningly to the side from the impact of the bullet in his brain. She grabbed her daughters and pulled them to her protectively.
Collins spun around in shock, thinking Dawson had gone crazy. He had ridden with Sam long enough to know he had not ordered execution for the victims, and now Dawson was turning to aim his pistol at Larry Bacon. Joel heard the solid thump against Dawson’s chest at almost the same time a rifle discharged behind him somewhere. Dawson staggered backward a few steps, looking down at his chest in disbelief. A fraction of a second later, another shot ripped into his side and he cried out in pain. His rifle dropped to the ground beside him and he went to his knees.
“What the hell . . . !” Bass demanded. “Where’d them shots come from?”
LONG ROAD TO CHEYENNE
Charles G. West
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Charles G. West, 2013
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REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
ISBN 978-1-101-61466-2
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Excerpt from MARK OF THE HUNTER
For Ronda
Chapter 1
Cam Sutton wheeled his buckskin gelding around sharply to head off a reluctant steer and drive it back into the chute that led to a holding pen by the railroad siding. That’s the last one, he thought, unknotting the bright red bandanna he had bought in Cheyenne and wiping the sweat from his face. He then turned the buckskin toward the lower end of the corral where his boss, Colonel Charles Coffee, stood with a tally sheet, watching the loading. The colonel turned to look at him when he rode up and dismounted.
“You ain’t changed your mind?” Coffee asked hopefully. Young Sutton was a hardworking drover, and had been ever since he hired him three years before. Coffee hated to lose him, but he understood Cam’s desire to leave. Coffee owned Rawhide Ranch in Wyoming’s Rawhide Buttes, but lately the better part of each year was spent driving cattle from the Wyoming counties of Niobrara and Goshen, a short distance across the line to Nebraska where the colonel had established Coffee Siding. Cattle shipped from Nebraska were cheaper than cattle shipped from Wyoming because of the higher freight rates in Wyoming.
“I reckon not,” Cam answered the colonel’s question.
“Well, I guess I can’t say as I blame you,” Coffee said. “You’re still young enough to have a hankering to see what the rest of the country looks like. I’d be glad to keep you on to work at Rawhide Ranch, but the days of free range are numbered. The settlers will be moving in before much longer.”
“That’s what I figured,” Cam said, “and like you said, I’ve got a hankerin’ to see some of the rest of the country before I decide to squat in one place.” He had been thinking a lot lately about his future in the cattle business. It was his feeling that the colonel’s range was going to be severely cut back in the near future. Coffee owned several ranches, but he didn’t own the land they sat on. It was all free land, government owned, and open to homesteading. Already some sections of their range had been fenced off, and unlike some of the other large ranch owners, the colonel was averse to using violent tactics to scare homesteaders away.
When Cam looked his situation straight in the face, he couldn’t say that he was unhappy riding for the Rawhide. If he had to define it, he would say it was more of a restless feeling, an urge to move on. Of course, he could always head back down to Texas and sign on with some outfit pushing a herd of cattle up north, but he was tired of playing nursemaid to a bunch of brainless critters. It didn’t help his restless feeling when he witnessed the increased traffic on the Deadwood Stage Road taking adventurous souls to the mysterious Black Hills.
Soon after the Black Hills were opened to prospectors, the stagecoach line established a line of changeover stations from Cheyenne to Deadwood in Dakota Territory. Colonel Coffee’s ranch in Rawhide Buttes was set up as one of the stops to change horses, so Cam had plenty of opportunity to see folks from all walks of life, all intent upon realizing the riches the Black Hills promised. Passengers were not the only cargo the coaches transported over the road. Every so often, a team of six horses pulling an ironclad Monitor coach, with a strongbox bolted to the floor, and a couple of extra messengers with rifles aboard, rolled into Rawhide on its way back to Cheyenne. He really didn’t know much about prospecting for gold, but he confessed that he was one who was always tempted to go see the elephant. So he had decided to head up Dakota way to see for himself what all the fuss was about. He could then decide if he wanted to be a part of it, or to simply move on to someplace else. He had no family to concern himself with, so he was free to follow the wind if he chose. His thoughts were interrupted then by a comment from the colonel.
“I’ve got your wages here, up through the end of this month,” Coffee said. “You thinking about heading out right away?”
“Well, if it’s all right with you, I thought I would.” Nodding toward the buckskin, he said, “Toby ain’t worked too hard this mornin’. Might as well head on up toward Hat Creek. If it’s all right,” he repeated.
Coffee smiled. “Of course it’s all right with me.” It was typical of the young man to concern himself with the thought that he might not be entitled to a full day’s wages if he had officially resigned. He handed Cam an envelope with his pay inside. “I added an extra month’s pay in there. You’re liable to need it. And listen, you come back any time you feel like it. I’ll always have a job for you.” He extended his hand in a parting gesture, joking as he and Cam shook hands. “
And don’t go telling the rest of the boys in the bunkhouse about the bonus. They’ll all quit, probably wanting the same deal.”
“I won’t,” Cam replied, grinning. “I ’preciate it, sir.”
“You earned it. You take care of yourself, boy.” He turned and walked toward the head of the siding.
• • •
Larry Bacon cracked his whip to encourage the six-horse matched team to maintain their speed up the incline. “Ha, boy, get up in there!” he called out to them. The team was not fresh but still had enough left to respond, and they would be changed at the Hat Creek Station, about five miles away. The horses answered Bacon’s urging, hauling the big Concord coach through a notch in the breaks south of Sage Creek. Inside the colorful yellow coach were six passengers: Travis Grant, a businessman headed for Deadwood; a man named Smith, who claimed to be a cattle buyer; Wilbur Bean, an extra stagecoach guard; Mary Bishop, along with and her two daughters, Grace and Emma. Riding shotgun in the seat beside the driver was his grizzled partner, Bob Allen. Like Bacon, he was a veteran of the three-hundred-mile run between Cheyenne and Deadwood.
It was an unusually light load for the big eighteen-passenger coach, but there was additional freight that warranted the extra guard, or messenger, as the company called him. In the strongbox bolted to the floor was a neat bundle of currency totaling thirty thousand dollars. And the only nervous passenger in the coach was Travis Grant, who was planning to invest the money in the creation of a bank in the thriving town of Deadwood.
There had been frequent holdups of the Deadwood stage, four in one month’s time by the notorious road agent Sam Bass and his gang. However, Bob and Larry were not expecting trouble on this run, in spite of the money they were carrying. Their reasoning was simple. The big gold shipments that the bandits were after were on the stages coming from Deadwood, and they were headed toward Deadwood. If any of Bass’s agents were watching the stage when it left Cheyenne or Fort Laramie, they would see that there was not a full load of eighteen passengers aboard, so not a worthwhile payday to go after. To be safe, however, the company sent Wilbur Bean along for extra protection. For these reasons, Bob Allen was taken completely by surprise when they topped the rise and he suddenly discovered three men standing in the narrow notch, their pistols out and aimed at him. He reached for the shotgun riding beside his leg as Larry hauled back on the reins to stop the coach.
“That’d be your first mistake,” a voice warned from the side of the hill above him, and he turned to see the muzzle of a rifle aimed at him. “Suppose you just pick that scattergun up by the barrel real gentle-like and toss it on the ground.”
Bob had no choice but to comply, so he did as he was ordered. “Damn,” he swore as he dropped the shotgun over the side, exchanging a quick glance with Larry. Both men were thinking the same thing, hoping that Wilbur Bean wasn’t asleep in the coach.
“Now you just drive them horses nice and slow down to the bottom of the hill,” the gunman said after he jumped down to land on top of the coach. “Mind you, this here .44 has a hair trigger, so you’d best take it real easy.”
“You fellers are goin’ to a lotta trouble for somethin’ that ain’t worth the effort,” Bob said. “Hell, we ain’t got but five passengers and three of ’em’s a woman and two children. You ain’t gonna make much offa this holdup. We ain’t carryin’ no gold shipment. Hell, word of this gets out and folks will be laughin’ at Sam Bass and his gang.”
“Who says it’s Sam’s gang?” the gunman asked.
“Well, if I ain’t took leave of my senses, that feller with the black hat and the black mustache standin’ in the middle of the road down yonder is sure as hell Sam Bass,” Bob replied. “Ain’t that right, Larry?” The two partners had had the unfortunate opportunity to meet Mr. Bass on another occasion while driving an ironclad coach between Custer City and the Cheyenne River crossing, so he was not likely to forget the man.
“I can’t say for sure,” Larry said, and shot a warning look in Bob’s direction. “That was a while back. It’s kinda hard to identify anybody after that length of time.”
Seemingly amused by Bob’s comment, the gunman prodded Larry in the back with the barrel of his rifle. “You just ease on down there, and we’ll see if it’s worth our time or not.”
Realizing just then what Larry was trying to tell him, Bob said, “I reckon you’re right. I don’t recall ever seein’ Sam Bass up close enough to know if it was him or not.”
Inside the coach, the passengers were now very much aware of what was taking place. Mary Bishop’s two daughters moved in close to their mother’s sides for protection, their faces tense with fear. “Ever’body just stay calm,” Wilbur Bean whispered, and slid off the seat to crouch at the door, his rifle ready. A second later, he felt the impersonal barrel of a Colt .44 pressed hard against his back.
“I’ll take that rifle, unless you’re ready to meet your Maker right now,” Mr. Smith informed him, and Wilbur released it immediately. Smith, whose real name was Cotton Roach, then addressed Travis Grant. “I’ll take that peashooter you’re carryin’ in your inside coat pocket, too. And while you’re at it, you can come up with the key to that strongbox—save us the trouble of havin’ to break it open with a cold chisel.”
His face drained of color, Grant hurried to do as he had been directed, knowing that the nightmare he had feared was even now unfolding before his eyes.
As the stage pulled slowly to a stop, the three men on the ground immediately surrounded it, brandishing their weapons and yelling orders for everyone to get out. Bob and Larry both locked their eyes on the door, anticipating some move by Wilbur Bean, expecting the possibility that he might come out firing. Neither of them had been relieved of his handgun, so they were poised to act when Wilbur surprised the bandits. They were almost stunned when he opened the door and calmly climbed down, Mr. Smith right behind him with a gun in Wilbur’s back. A firm tap of the rifle barrel on the back of Bob’s neck then reminded him that the gunman was still there. “Now, with your left hand, reach over and pull that pistol out of the holster and drop it on the ground,” he ordered. “One at a time!” he scolded when Larry started to do the same. When Bob dropped his weapon, the gunman told Larry to do likewise. “Now both of you get on down.” He remained standing on top of the stage while he watched Bob and Larry climb down to stand away from the coach with their hands raised. “Have any trouble in there?” he asked Cotton Roach.
“Nope, no trouble,” Roach replied.
“Where’s the man with the key?”
“He’s comin’,” Roach said. “He’s peein’ his pants right now, but he ain’t gonna give us no trouble.”
The outlaw still on top of the stage nodded to the man standing at the door of the coach now. Motioning toward Bob Allen, he remarked, “He said he recognized you.”
Sam Bass nodded slowly, then turned to address Bob. “You think you know me?” he asked.
“I told you we shoulda wore them masks,” one of his men said.
“Shut up, Joel,” Bass responded while never taking his eyes off Bob.
Knowing he might have placed them all in jeopardy by his earlier remark, Bob tried to lessen the damage. “What I said was I thought you favored Sam Bass a little bit. Hell, I don’t have no idea who you are.” He glanced at Larry, who rolled his eyes heavenward in response. Both men shifted their gaze to the weapons lying in the dirt a dozen yards away.
Reading their thoughts, Bass said, “You wouldn’t make it halfway there before we cut you down.” Getting back to the business that prompted the holdup, he ordered, “Get yourself outta that coach!” Then when Travis Grant placed a trembling foot on the step, Bass grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked the terrified man out of the coach to land on his hands and knees. “Cotton,” Bass called, “you got that box open yet?”
“Yeah, I got it, but we got some more folks in here.”
“We
ll, tell ’em to get on out here,” Bass said. He stood by the door then and politely helped Grace and her sister down from the coach. He then extended his hand to offer Mary Bishop his assistance, but she ignored it.
“I can manage myself,” she said curtly, and climbed down to join her daughters.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said with a wide grin, “you surely can.”
At that moment, Cotton Roach sang out from inside the coach, “It’s all here, just like Ike said. I ain’t counted it yet, but it sure looks like as much as we thought.”
It was then that Wilbur Bean made his decision. Standing closer to the coach than Bob and Larry, he could see the barrel of his rifle on the floor where he had been forced to drop it. With the bandits distracted for the moment by Roach’s announcement, he suddenly dived for the rifle. It was a brave but futile effort. The gunman still on top of the stage cut him down before he could reach the door. The reaction of the outlaws was immediate, with guns trained on Bob and Larry before they could even think about making a move. The two young girls screamed and pressed closer to their mother. The frightened Mr. Grant shrieked almost as loudly as the girls.
“I had a feelin’ he was gonna try somethin’ like that,” the shooter said nonchalantly. He glanced up then to catch a scalding look from Sam Bass. “Hell, Sam, I didn’t have no choice. I couldn’t let him get to that rifle.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve opened up a whole new can of beans now,” Bass said. There was now the matter to decide whether or not they could afford to leave witnesses to the holdup. Jack Dawson had killed the guard, and that usually got the military stirred up. He had also called Sam by name, and he didn’t particularly want the law to associate murder with his holdups. “Get down offa there and help Joel move these folks down the road a ways,” Bass told him. “We can’t stand around here all day.” He turned to the remaining member of his gang. “Ben, go get the horses. Then unhitch them horses from the stage and scatter ’em. It’ll be a helluva long time before they can catch ’em again and get to Hat Creek Station. We’ll be long gone.”
Long Road to Cheyenne Page 1
