Hangtown

by Paul Lederer

  Boggs was crouched at the front window of the saloon, his rifle at the ready. Cherry accepted a glass of whisky from Cora with trembling hands and drank it down.

  ‘We’re the only ones left,’ Cherry told her.

  Laredo and Wage Carson heard the shots distinctly although they were a mile away from Hangtown when they were fired.

  ‘Something’s up,’ Wage said, ‘let’s get going.’

  The more experienced Laredo cautioned Wage, ‘I’d rather get there with a live horse under me, Wage. Whatever has happened is already done, we can’t stop it now.’

  Wage admitted that Laredo was right. There was no sense in whipping the horses to reach an event that was already over. Still his impatience made it difficult for him to hold his gray to a walk. ‘What do you think happened, Laredo?’

  ‘Same as you,’ Laredo answered. ‘The soldiers tried to take it to Jay Champion.’

  ‘Think it worked?’

  ‘Why don’t we wait and find out?’ Laredo replied. Although if he were betting he would have put his money on Jay and Virgil Sly against three or four drunk horse soldiers. Whiskey was a great equalizer.

  The two reined up on the very same knoll that Laredo had rested on only the day before – was that all that it had been? The town was silent. No one was on the street, which figured. There were too many guns out there.

  ‘What do you think?’ Wage asked. Behind him now, as Laredo glanced his way, the first dully burnished colors of dawn were illuminating the eastern skies.

  ‘Jay Champion. Virgil Sly. We’ve got to eliminate them. Or maybe I’m just speaking for myself, Wage. They’re my responsibility, after all.’

  ‘And mine,’ Wage Carson said emphatically. ‘They busted up my town.’

  ‘All right then,’ Laredo said, hiding a grin behind his hat as he wiped the sweatband. ‘One thing we do know is that they’ll be ready to make a break for it now. As soon as they recover the loot from wherever they’ve stashed it. There’s still the other man – I think it must be Bert Washburn, from what I’ve learned of the gang. I don’t have a good plan, but I have an idea.

  ‘One of us circles up next to the shoulder of the mesa and Indians his way toward the camp. The other will have to be out watching if they’ve already pulled up stakes and broken for the desert. Which job do you want?’

  ‘Flip a coin,’ Wage said. It made no difference to him.

  ‘All right. Heads, I win,’ Laredo said without ever having produced a coin. ‘I’ll take the trail out. You try to get up behind them, Wage. If I hear shooting, I’ll know for sure that they’re still up there, and I’ll be along to help you out. Same goes for you. If you hear weapons fired out here on the flats, you’ll know they’ve made their run. In that case get back as quick as you can.’ Laredo’s face grew grim. ‘I think I’d have a chance with any one of them, but with all three … just get back here fast if that’s what happens.’

  That was the way they decided to try it. With a startling flourish of color dawn blossomed, painting the eastern skies. With the same suddenness, the sky went white and empty again as day reclaimed the desert.

  Wage Carson liked none of this. He was no warrior and knew it. He smiled, wishing that ‘tails’ had come up on the imaginary coin flip. He might have felt safer out on the open land than here, riding his horse through the deep cool shadows of the huge mesa, weaving through the scrub oak and manzanita. He was stalking three known gunmen and they had to know that he was coming.

  Wage carried his rifle across the saddlebow. It was early and not yet sweltering, but sweat stung his eyes and pasted his blue shirt to his broad back. Hangtown lay stretched out below him. No one, nothing moved along its streets and alleys. It seemed as empty and devoid of life as it had the day he and Josh Banks rode into it.

  But it was not empty, he knew. Somewhere down there were soldiers, women. And somewhere Liza sat watching or hoping, or afraid. She was safe now, or should be. But the situation was fraught with peril, and utterly unpredictable.

  He would not allow her to be hurt. By anyone. Ever again.

  Wage crested the low knoll he had been riding and reined in hard. His gray horse tossed its head angrily at the rough pull on the reins. Wage mentally apologized and stroked the horse’s neck.

  He was looking directly down at the outlaw camp. One man was visible, preparing his horse for riding. He had a pair of heavy saddle-bags in his hand. Now Jay Champion – for that was who it was – flipped them behind his saddle and fastened them there with hemp strings. The bank money, no doubt.

  Wage shouldered his rifle and took careful aim, but Champion had gone to the far side of his horse, offering only a small target profile. But Wage had found him. The question was, where were the other men – Bert Washburn and Virgil Sly? Positioned in concealment ready to cut Wage down the instant he fired his Winchester? Caution caused Wage to examine the surrounding area slowly and cautiously. He saw nothing, heard nothing but – incongruously – the distant twanging of Gus Travers’s banjo.

  Where were Sly and Washburn?

  As Wage tried to make up his mind whether to try to take Jay Champion out or not, the bearded bank robber swung into his saddle and started downslope toward town. Perhaps, Wage considered, he had missed his best opportunity, but not only did he not know where the other outlaws were, he had an inborn prejudice against gunning a man down without warning. Foolish he supposed; he knew it would be mocked in some circles.

  Nevertheless, right or wrong he could not pull the trigger. He fell in behind Jay Champion, following him into Hangtown. Where were the other outlaws?

  Jay Champion was also wondering where Bert Washburn was. If the kid had rabbited, at least he had left the money behind. But why had he failed to stay and guard it? After all, Bert was expecting his own share of the loot from the bank job. Jay could only conclude that the soldiers must have gotten Bert. It was a matter of little consequence to the desert hardcase.

  Sly was a different story. Sure, at times he and Virgil disagreed, but the gunhand was invaluable, probably irreplaceable. No matter how tight the situation was, Jay knew he could count on Sly to stand and shoot it out. There was no rabbit in Virgil Sly’s parentage, nor would a thinking man ever wish to find himself on the wrong side of Sly’s gunsights.

  Jay had heard no gunshots so he figured that things had not gone wrong. But had Sly had any success?

  It was as they had neared the town limits the night before that Sly had suddenly pulled up and sat his quivering sorrel horse. ‘My pony must have taken a bullet back there,’ Sly said bitterly.

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know! How the hell would I know, Jay? It’s done, though. It might live, but it’s not going to be able to make the run.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Jay asked.

  ‘It’s not a matter of what I want,’ Sly said, swinging down from the sorrel, ‘it’s what has to be done. I’ve got to find another horse.’

  ‘We pretty much eliminated all the extra horses in Hangtown,’ Jay said dourly as Sly used an empty stirrup to swing up behind Jay Champion.

  ‘Didn’t we?’ Sly agreed. ‘That might have been the flaw in our plan. No matter – I’ll find a mount if I have to ride a dray animal. It’s past time we were out of here.’

  ‘Hell of a fix,’ Jay said, starting his horse toward the mesa, ‘but then, Sly, we’ve been through worse and we’re still here.’

  So as Jay Champion had been busy recovering the hidden saddle-bags filled with thousands of bank dollars, Sly had slipped into Hangtown as dawn broke.

  The saloon, Sly saw, was quiet. The hotel as well. There was a light still burning low in the marshal’s office, but Sly knew that neither marshal nor deputy was there. He crossed the street, his shadow long and crooked before him and slipped into the alley next to the stable. There was a sudden discordant racket that caused Sly to withdraw momentarily, hand on his pistol, before he recognized the sound for what it was.

  Damned banjo.
>
  Who played banjo at this time of the morning? At any time of the day or night, according to Sly’s sensibilities, the instrument should be banned from the civilized world. Especially before breakfast. He crept toward the small back door of the stable, toed the door open and slipped inside, Colt revolver held barrel up beside his ear.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Sly was able to see a gaunt, silver-haired figure sitting on the tailgate of a Conestoga wagon, amusing himself with his vigorous plucking of his battered banjo.

  ‘Party’s still not over?’ Sly asked, stepping forward.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Gus Travers asked, peering into the murky shadows. He lowered the banjo and let it rest on his lap.

  ‘You don’t know me, friend,’ Sly answered. ‘Let’s keep it that way.’

  Sly glanced around and noticed the formless lump covered with a tarp lying in the corner shadows of the stable.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Man who tried to steal a mule.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘With what? The most dangerous implement I carry is this banjo,’ Gus answered. ‘It was the mayor who done it. It’s his riding animal,’

  Sly crouched and flipped the corner of the tarp back. It was Bert Washburn lying there. Sly grunted and stood. He glanced toward the open double doors and asked Gus, ‘Where’d the mayor go?’

  ‘How would I know? I’m party to no one’s business but my own. Back to the marshal’s office, I’d suppose.’

  ‘All right,’ Sly said displaying his Colt .44 again, ‘here’s what we’re going to do. You are going to saddle that white-eared monster while I watch the street.’ Gus slowly shook his head in a gesture of refusal, but Sly eared back the hammer of his pistol and the old man clambered down spider-like from the wagon’s tailgate.

  Sly knew that Jay Champion would be growing anxious, wanting to ride before the marshal and his lanky deputy showed up. He also knew that Jay would not run out on him. Not intentionally. Because no matter how far he ran, Jay knew that Sly would be riding in his tracks.

  The two knew each other too well for treachery. The money mattered, but their outlaw pride mattered more.

  Sly waited, staring into the white morning sunlight, glancing from the corner of his eye only occasionally to make sure the old man had no tricks to play. That seemed unlikely. Gus Travers had enjoyed a long life; he did not seem eager to terminate it. What did he care, anyway, about Josh Banks’s mule?

  Saddled, fitted with a bridle, the mule was led forward to Sly. The gunman frowned at the sight – for him to be riding a mule was a come down. He knew that many of the old-timers preferred them for their durability, but Virgil Sly on a beast that was half a donkey! No matter – he had to rejoin Jay Champion and blow off Hangtown. Things could only improve. With Dent and now Bert Washburn down, there was only the two of them to split what they had estimated to be twenty thousand dollars. There had been no time on the trail to sit down and count the cash, but twenty grand was a modest and fairly accurate estimate of their take.

  The next few years would be taken in leisure in Mexico with pretty dark-eyed girls serving them drinks in the shade of palmas. The hell with Hangtown and its boy marshal. The hell with everyone. Sly yanked the reins to the mule from Gus’s shaky hand.

  They were home free.

  Or so he thought until he stepped outside and found the guns trained on him.

  EIGHT

  Wage Carson had reluctantly removed his gunsights from Jay Champion’s bulky body. Still not knowing where the other two outlaws were he was reluctant to fire, and his focus had shifted to other concerns. That is, he knew where Jay was and had no real reason to take him down from ambush. If the outlaw leader did choose to make a run for it, well, Laredo was positioned somewhere along the road out of town. Champion was effectively hemmed in.

  Wage was now more concerned about the town – his town. Had Bert and Virgil Sly slipped down there for some reason? To gather horses, for example. Wage was worried about Josh Banks now and, more deeply than he was willing to admit, about Liza.

  He rode his gray horse down the sage-stippled slope and guided it toward the marshal’s office. If anything was amiss, Josh would presumably know. Everything was still – silent in the dry heat of morning. Wage walked his horse toward the marshal’s office. He saw no one in front of the hotel, no movement inside the saloon.

  The quiet of the day held for only seconds longer.

  Virgil Sly emerged from the stable, leading Josh Banks’s white-eared mule. Across the street, Josh who must have been watching, came on to the porch of the marshal’s office with his Winchester at his shoulder.

  ‘Stop, thief!’ Wage heard Josh shout, and then the loud crack of his Winchester rifle echoed along the street. Behind Wage two soldiers emerged from the saloon, rifles in their hands. Wage himself dived from the saddle to the powder-dry earth of the street as he recognized that the gunman, Virgil Sly, now crouched behind the mule, was ready and willing to fire back.

  Sly’s first two bullets drove Josh Banks to cover inside the jailhouse as his near shots pocked the adobe walls. Josh dropped his rifle and rolled inside, saving himself. The two soldiers were not so fortunate.

  Private Boggs loosed a shot from his slow-loading .45-.70 Springfield in Sly’s direction, missed and was shot as he tried to fumble another cartridge into the breech. From fifty yards away Virgil Sly caught Boggs in the heart with a bullet from his Colt.

  Cherry had no better luck. The soldier’s shot did nothing but stampede the mule, but Sly, firing from one knee, caught him with a bullet which went through the big trooper from side to side, and Cherry buckled at the knees and went down.

  Sly grabbed for the mule’s reins, felt the leather ribbons slip through his gloved hands and bolted for the shelter of the alley next to the stable. Wage Carson, afoot, went after him, letting the gray horse run free.

  Sly, running on, cursed as long as his breath could sustain his anger. He thumbed fresh loads into the cylinder of his Colt as he ran, dropping a few of the brass cartridges in his haste. He slowed, closed the loading gate of his pistol and leaned against the heated wall of a building he took for the saloon.

  Damn all! He had been so close. Now this.

  But after all, he considered, there was no one on his trail but one hick marshal who knew what a gun was for but had never seen a master craftsman at his trade with a blue-steel Colt. The kid would blunder; he was bound to. Virgil Sly did not make mistakes when it came to shooting.

  All right then, Sly thought, catching his breath. Take it to the marshal or wait him out? Sly decided to wait. The odds were better that way. Let the unskilled oaf stumble, slip, poke his head around a corner and he was done.

  Better yet – Sly was thinking as he eyed the back door of the saloon – the kid was inexperienced enough to respect human life. Hostages might multiply Sly’s chances enormously. He slipped inside the saloon and came face to face with Liza.

  ‘Hello, kid,’ Sly said with soft menace, locking the door behind him.

  Liza tried to scream, but her constricted throat was knotted into silence. Sly put his callused hand over her mouth.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Liza answered.

  ‘The name is Virgil Sly. I’ve killed half a hundred men including two today. I am a man without mercy, kid. You do as I say and you might survive. Who’s out there?’ he asked, lifting his chin toward the saloon’s ballroom. He relaxed his grip enough for her to answer.

  ‘Just the girls.’

  ‘No soldiers?’

  ‘I think … I think they’re all dead,’ Liza answered. She held her head low, but her eyes were alight with dark fire. Sly lifted her chin with his thumb.

  ‘You’d better be right. I don’t like killing women – they have their uses – but it’s been known to happen on occasion.’

  He then forced her through the inner door toward the ballroom where the three other women,
in various stages of dress and composure sat huddled near the whiskey barrel. Rebecca and Madeline registered astonishment; Cora Kellogg, whom nothing much surprised after her years hustling a dollar on the desert, only showed grim concern.

  ‘Leave that young girl alone!’ Cora shouted robustly.

  Virgil Sly grinned an answer and shoved Liza aside. She stumbled, more with the unexpectedness of the movement than from Sly’s force and fell to the plank floor.

  ‘Y’all stand back just a few paces, ladies,’ Sly said, gesturing with his pistol. ‘I believe I could use a little sip of that honeydew myself just now.’ So saying, Sly moved to the whiskey barrel and, using a glass which one of the girls had left there, he tapped it for a healthy double-shot.

  ‘Awful stuff,’ Sly commented after he had downed it. ‘We used to sell better whiskey to the Indians.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Cora demanded brashly. Liza had managed to rise from the saloon floor and she dusted off her jeans, backing away from Sly as the others had done.

  ‘Me, ma’am?’ Sly replied, and it was difficult to tell if he was trying to be funny or not. ‘I’m just wanting to leave this town in one piece. I thought you might be of some help there.’

  The front door opened and Sly swung the sights of his pistol that way automatically. It was Cherry, who had somehow survived being shot through his body from arm to arm. He was bleeding profusely and angry. He did not seem, however, to recognize Sly as the man who had done the shooting. He lifted one hand toward Cora Kellogg and murmured, ‘Cora, I need some help.’ Then he folded up on himself and fell to the floor.

  Cora looked at Sly for permission.

  ‘Do what you can,’ Virgil Sly said tightly. ‘Hell, I had nothing against the man until he tried to gun me down.’

  ‘Now what are you going to do?’ the little firebrand of a girl demanded. Sly glanced at Liza, appreciating her nerve. The other women were lush and interesting, but they had shown no spine.

  ‘I already told you, girl. I’m getting out of here. Someone is going along with me – maybe all of you. I don’t want anyone, the marshal, that deputy, nobody else taking shots at me as I do so.’