Comstock Cross Fire

by Gary Franklin

  “I don’t give a damn when or where Eli gets drunk. And as far as gettin’ himself killed, it might as well be today, for it’s sure comin’ tomorrow.”

  “You just try to kill me, you sonofabitch!” Eli snarled.

  Fiona stared at a slovenly woman with a big goiter on her neck and no teeth in her mouth. The woman probably wasn’t any older than herself, and she looked mean, jaded, and cruel. “Mr. Holt,” Fiona said, “I feel like Eli about Perdition and I’d just as soon get that bath, dress, and comb later. These people look like they hate us on sight.”

  “They probably do,” Holt said. “All right, it’s decided. I’ll buy what we must have here, and then we’ll get out of Perdition before the sun goes down. But I’m still looking for a man or two . . . the kind that can shoot straight and who won’t cut and run if we get into trouble.”

  Joe frowned and said, “There are three liveries in Perdition. I’d recommend you deal with an old one-legged man who owns the last livery right at the edge of the desert.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Micah,” Joe said.

  “And this Micah is honest?” Holt asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “Ain’t nobody honest in Perdition,” Joe explained. “But Micah is less dishonest than most.”

  “What about the supplies we need for the desert crossing?”

  Joe pointed to a log cabin where a bunch of mongrels were lounging around in the afternoon shade. “That’d be my choice.”

  “All right,” Holt said. “We’ll get a buckboard and a team of horses at the livery, and then drive ’em back to that log cabin and get whatever supplies we have to have before we head out into the desert.”

  “What about us?” Joe said. “Are we supposed to sit on our horses in the sun chained together like slaves?”

  Holt swiveled around in his saddle and studied the town and its hard-eyed inhabitants. “That’s the way it’ll have to be, Joe,” he finally decided. “I’m thinking that a man as bad as you might just have some good friends in Perdition. If that is the case, I want them to see that you are my prisoner and that I’m not a man to be crossed.”

  “I can handle anything you can dish out,” Joe said, “but Fiona is a woman and it’s too hard on her to sit her horse for hours in chains right out in this damned hot sun.”

  Holt gave that a moment’s thought. “All right. Eli, you lead our prisoners and their horses over to that big tree and unchain their feet. Let them dismount and rest in the shade.”

  “That’s the best that you’re going to do for us here?” Fiona asked, voice filled with anger. “We haven’t eaten since yesterday and I need to do my business in private.”

  “Lift your dirty skirt and do your business behind that big tree,” Holt ordered before riding off to the livery to buy a wagon and horses.

  When Holt rode up to the livery, sure enough an old, one-legged man came out of his barn with straw stuck to his breeches. The liveryman was small, thin, and not a bit friendly. He asked, “What do you need, big man?”

  “I need a buckboard and a team of horses. Five or six hundred pounds of grain, a few extra ropes, and harness.”

  “I can provide what you need, big man, providing you got the money to pay.”

  “Let me see what you have to sell me,” Holt said. “And then perhaps we’ll talk price.”

  “You’ll like my horses. They’re all sound and in good flesh. My name is Micah. I only deal in cash or gold.”

  “I have federal cash.”

  “That will do,” Micah said. “Come look at the horses and then I’ll show you what wagons and harness I have to sell. How about saddles?”

  “Don’t need any saddles.”

  “Too bad,” Micah told him. “I’ve got about a dozen and I’d sell the lot of them cheap. Got some Indian ponies, too. But they ain’t strong enough to pull a wagon. They’re just small, runty mustangs.”

  “No mustangs,” Holt said. “I want big, strong horses or mules.”

  “What about oxen?”

  “Too slow,” Holt said.

  “Slow but steadier, and they do real well on that sagebrush and salt grass you’re gonna see so much of on the way west.”

  “Maybe,” Holt said, “but I don’t like oxen, so just show me mules and horses.”

  Two hours later, Holt drove a buckboard and a team of four good Missouri mules out of the livery and his wallet was $130 lighter. The cost was much higher than it should have been, or would have been in Laramie or even Denver or St. Louis, but Holt understood that he was not in a strong bargaining position, and so he paid without whining. He was going to be short of money for supplies, and that meant that they’d have to do without much whiskey and food, but he’d buy all the extra ammunition that they would require for the desert trek.

  Ignoring Joe, Fiona, and Eli, who were resting in the shade of the tree, Ransom Holt drove over to the log cabin that served as a general store. He was about to climb down from the buckboard when two men were knocked backpedaling through the log cabin’s open doorway. Their faces were covered with blood and they staggered off the porch, then spilled to the ground.

  Holt froze on his wagon seat as a tall young man, a half-breed by the looks of him, stepped out of the log cabin and shouted at the battered pair, “You got anything else to say about my mother and my Cheyenne blood?”

  Both of the battered and bloody men on the ground swore and went for the guns on their hips. The half-breed also wore a six-gun, and it came out of his worn holster faster than the blink of a cat’s eye. The gun in the breed’s hand bucked just twice, and Holt saw crimson roses appear in the center of the two men’s chests as if by magic. Drilled through their hearts, both men were dead before their boot heels could drum the alkali dust.

  The half-breed holstered his gun and started to step over the bodies and leave.

  “Hey!” another voice yelled, and the breed twisted around to see the owner of the general store emerge holding a shotgun aimed at his chest. “Breed, you busted up my place and now you’re gonna pay!”

  Holt could almost see the half-breed’s mind working as his hand strayed toward his holstered pistol. But the shotgun was cocked and there was no way the store owner could have missed blowing the breed all to hell.

  After a moment’s deliberation, the breed’s shoulders sagged and he raised his hands shoulder high. “You got the drop on me, mister. But I didn’t start that fight in your store. Those two did, and so they’re the ones that owe you for damages, not me.”

  “Well, you killed ’em so now they can’t pay me! And since you finished the fight in a permanent way, are you gonna pay for what you destroyed, or shall I just put you down right now with those other two?”

  “I ain’t got but two bits,” the half-breed said, his dark eyes showing no fear as he looked up at the furious store owner. “But, mister, you could take the guns and boots off those dead men and that surely would be enough to pay for all your damages.”

  “Yeah,” the store owner said, “but just to make sure, I could kill you and have three guns, two pair of boots, and those fancy beaded Injun moccasins that you’re wearing. How’s that sound? Huh, breed?”

  “Sounds like you mean to kill me no matter what,” the breed replied. “I got cash money to pay, so why don’t you put that shotgun down?”

  “Let’s see your money, breed! And keep your hand away from that gun. I saw how fast you drew and fired on those two.”

  “Yes, sir,” the breed said quietly. “My money is tucked into my money belt just behind my backbone.”

  “Let’s see it!”

  Holt watched the half-breed reach behind his back, and instead of finding a money belt, he found a large hunting knife. The knife came out faster than the strike of a snake, and the breed hurled it with tremendous accuracy and force, then threw himself sideways as the shotgun exploded harmlessly into the sky.

  The hunting knife had found it
s mark.

  The storekeeper dropped his empty shotgun and stared down at the deer-antler handle of the hunting knife protruding from his belly. After a moment, he slowly looked up with shock and amazement at the half-breed. “You . . . you stinkin’ red breed bastard!” the store owner choked out before he toppled off his porch to land beside the other two dead men.

  The half-breed snatched his gun out of his holster and spun around to cover Ransom Holt, who was the only man close enough to have witnessed the sudden deaths. “You want any of this, big man?”

  “Hell, no,” Ransom said, throwing up both of his huge hands. “I’m out of it!”

  “Smart man.”

  The half-breed quickly rummaged through the pockets of the three bodies, pulling out cash, and then he jammed their pistols under his gun belt and snatched up the store owner’s fine shotgun.

  “Big man, tell these Mormon assholes that if they come after me, a lot more white-eyes will die before the sun goes down!”

  “I’ll tell them,” Holt promised.

  The breed shook his head and his long, black hair waved. “And . . . and tell them it was self-defense. You saw it, mister! I had to kill them all or they’d have killed me.”

  “I’ll tell them exactly what I saw. It was self-defense and there is no question about it.”

  “Sure it was . . . but you’re one of them, so I expect they’ll try to track me down and kill me,” the half-breed hissed a moment before he took off running down the street headed west into the desert.

  Within five minutes, most of the population of Perdition was standing around the three dead men and Holt was retelling for the third time how the half-breed had been forced to kill these men in self-defense.

  “I had already paid the store owner for supplies and was coming back to pick them up with this wagon I just bought from Micah,” Ransom smoothly lied. “And now, if you people don’t mind, I’m going to collect the supplies that I paid for and leave this godforsaken town of Perdition.”

  There was some arguing that maybe Holt was not telling the whole truth, but when Holt turned his hard eyes on those who spoke such foolish words, that kind of talk fell silent.

  Holt marched into the general store like he had bought the whole place, and quickly filled three feed sacks of supplies including five boxes of ammunition. He would have emptied the cash drawer, too, if there hadn’t been sullen townsmen watching his every move.

  “So long,” Holt said to no one in particular.

  A thin, pocked-faced man blocked his path and demanded, “Stranger, how do we know you paid for all those goods?”

  Holt knew you could never run just a half bluff, so he leaned over the man and hissed, “You’re just gonna have to take my word for it or else call me a liar, and then Perdition will have four gawddamn Mormon funerals in one day. Which is it to be, mister?”

  The pocked-faced man looked into Holt’s black, pitiless eyes and nervously licked his thin lips, saying, “No offense, stranger. Come to think of it, I reckon you’re tellin’ the truth after all.”

  “I reckon I am,” Holt growled as he bulled his way past the men while hauling his three heavy feed sacks of supplies over his shoulder. He swung the sacks up into the buckboard, climbed into the wagon, and took a second to study the dead men.

  Holt raised his eyes to the sullen, suspicious crowd and hollered, “If I were you folks, I’d not try to go after the half-breed kid. I’m the only witness and I tell you it was a case of self-defense.”

  “But he’s a damn Cheyenne!” someone swore.

  “Half Cheyenne,” Holt corrected. “And I say one more time that he’s innocent of all these deaths.”

  “Who the hell are you?” someone from the angry-faced crowd demanded.

  Holt sought out the speaker and replied, “I’m the man who is just about damn good and ready to jump down from this buckboard and kick your ass up between your shoulder blades!”

  The man shut up and the crowd parted as Holt drove his wagon and his supplies over to the big tree where Eli was guarding Joe and Fiona Moss.

  “Did you see what happened just now in front of the log cabin?” Holt asked.

  “I seen it,” Eli said with wonder in his voice. “But then I swear, it’s hard for me to believe what I actually did see. That half-breed has the fastest hands I ever saw in my life. Faster than poor Dalton’s hands even.”

  “Joe Moss, did you see those three killings?” Holt asked.

  “I saw them, and the half-breed was only trying to save his life. He didn’t want to kill the store owner, and he wouldn’t have done it ’cept he could see that the fool was going to blow a hole through him.”

  “Yeah, that’s the way I saw it, too,” Holt agreed. “Self-defense in all three cases. That half-breed is a born killer as gawd is my witness.”

  Eli said, “That half-breed was not only fast with a gun and a knife—he was fast on his feet. Why, he flew down this street past us and out into the desert like he had wings on his moccasins.”

  “When I was his age, I could run like that one,” Joe said to himself. “But he’s fast. Real fast.”

  “Let’s get out of here while the crowd is still fascinated with the three dead men,” Holt suggested.

  “Did you buy all the supplies we need?” Eli asked.

  “I didn’t buy anything,” Holt said with a smirk and a wink. “But how could any of those Jack Mormons know that I was lying?”

  “You mean that you just went in and filled those three sacks for free?” Eli asked with admiration filling his voice.

  “That’s right. Why should you pay for something when you can have it for nothing?”

  Eli helped Fiona up onto her little sorrel mare, and then chained her ankles together under the horse before he did the same thing to Joe Moss.

  “Fiona, I got you a couple of dresses,” said Holt. “There was no time to look at the sizes, so they’re probably going to be too big.”

  “Any whiskey?” Eli asked.

  “Naw,” Holt said, “I was moving too fast and it must have been hidden somewhere.”

  “Damn,” Eli swore.

  “We’ll find us some on the road to Reno,” Holt promised. “Now let’s get out of this town,” he ordered, slapping a whip over his new team of Missouri mules and hurrying west out of Perdition.

  11

  “HEY, BOSS, IT’S gettin’ pretty dark,” Eli called. “Don’t you think we should pull up and make camp?”

  “Let’s try to push it a couple of more miles,” Holt said. “I want to get as much distance between ourselves and Perdition as we can this evening.”

  Eli grumbled, “But in the dark we could drive that buckboard into a pothole or deep rut and bust a wagon wheel. Or there could be Paiutes skulkin’ around out here in the brush! Hellfire, if we keep movin’ in the dark, we’re just askin’ for trouble.”

  “All right, another mile,” Holt said, not wanting to cave in to the man’s sound logic. “Another mile and then we’ll make camp. But no fire! Not tonight anyway.”

  “You think we’ve got enough barrels filled with water to get all the way to the Humboldt River?” Eli asked. “Five barrels don’t seem like that much to me, given us and all the livestock we’ve got.”

  “Micah said five barrels would get us all the way to a place called Salt Springs.”

  “Salt Springs! Shit! That doesn’t sound like good water to me!” Eli complained.

  “Shut up and let’s keep movin’.”

  Joe and Fiona were once more shackled by the ankles with chains running under the bellies of their horses. And their horses were now securely halter-tied to the back of the buckboard that Ransom Holt was driving. Joe’s spirits were even lower than they had been the day before entering Perdition. Now it seemed like they were in even tougher circumstances. And if Eli’s worst fears materialized and they were jumped by Paiutes, well, Joe and Fiona were as good as butchered beef.

  “All right,” Holt called after they’d plodded along
for another hour. “Let’s pull up here and make camp.”

  “It ain’t much of a place to camp, Mr. Holt. Right here in the middle of the road with sagebrush crowdin’ us.”

  “It will do,” Holt said, sounding testy. “Eli, just quit your bitchin’ and unsaddle the horses and unhitch the mules. Make sure that you tie them to the wagon and grain them at least a pound apiece. And give them a full bucket of water apiece, too.”

  “How come I got to do all the work?” Eli groused. “What are you gonna do, Mr. Holt?”

  “I’m going to rest and keep watch over Joe and Fiona until about three in the morning, at which time I’ll wake your lazy ass and you’ll keep watch over them until dawn.”

  “Damn, how come we gotta do that?”

  “Because those Paiutes you worry about so much would love to catch us all sleeping. Isn’t that right, Joe?”

  “I reckon so,” Joe said.

  “And you’d be as helpless as a kitten if the Paiutes came to lift your scalp,” Holt said with a yawn as he unshackled Joe and Fiona and then watched them dismount before he reshackled them again to the wagon. “I got some sour-dough bread and salt pork. We’ll eat and then sleep.”

  “How do we sleep standing up?” Fiona asked with unconcealed sarcasm.

  “I’ll chain you to opposite sides of the wagon on the wheels,” Holt decided. “Now let’s just get settled in and everybody shut the hell up. It’s been a long day . . . but a profitable one.”

  “I’m still thinkin’ about that half-breed and how he could draw that pistol and fire, and then how he throw’d that big hunting knife and got the storekeeper right in the guts,” Eli said as he unhitched the mules. “That fella was somethin’ to watch!”

  “He took off running this way,” Holt told the man. “So that’s another reason why we have to keep a watch out all night.”

  “I don’t think he would have anything to do with us,” Eli said, his voice lacking conviction. “I mean, that Cheyenne Injun kid was just trying to save his own neck.”

  “Yeah,” Holt agreed. “And he might just decide to kill us and steal everything.”