by Ralph Cotton
On the other side of the bar, Dock Latin had his shotgun up, pointed at a man wearing a battered coachman’s top hat. The man, Albert Shank, was only a few from his own shotgun. But the colonel saw what would happen if Shank made a grab for it. Overhead, the two guards in the cage had their guns up and ready.
“It’s a bloodbath, either way it goes, Colonel,” Cheyenne said quietly, seeing everything pressing on the colonel’s mind. “I understand Silva and you are real close. You really want to see her insides all over the wall?”
“You’re the Cheyenne Kid, aren’t you?” the colonel said in a tight voice.
“If I was, would I say so?” Cheyenne replied. “Make up our mind, Colonel,” he pressed. “It’s only money.”
The colonel raised his hands slow and easy.
“Men, stand down. We’re being robbed,” he said. “Everybody act right. Don’t do nothing stupid.” He stood staring evenly at Cheyenne. “The floor is all yours, sir,” he said.
Chapter 18
Along the bar, the few remaining customers watched in drunken, detached silence, as if they were seeing someone else’s bad dream unfolding before them. One of them, a grizzly teamster named Harman Pettibone, stood with his head bowed, eyes closed, smiling absentmindedly at the beer-soaked bar top.
“Has the music stopped?” he asked anyone nearby.
“Shut up, Pettibone. We’re being robbed,” a drunken miner hissed.
“The hell we are,” said Pettibone, his hand fumbling for the battered Starr revolver stuck down in his waist behind his fringed, buckskin coat.
Another drunken miner shoved Pettibone’s hand away from the big pistol.
“Stop it, fool. You’ll get us all killed.”
Pettibone shrugged and plopped his gun hand back atop the bar.
Cheyenne continued holding the dove from behind, his Colt aimed at her head. But he did feel a sense of relief when the colonel told all of his guards to stand down.
“Have your men up there unload their scatterguns and drop them out of the cage,” he said to the colonel, gesturing toward the birdcage above them.
The colonel stared at Cheyenne coldly, even as he did what he was told.
“Careful with that woman, Kid,” he cautioned Cheyenne. “Anything happens to her, there’s no coming back for any of us.”
“I hear you,” Cheyenne said, keeping his forearm around Silvia.
That being said, the colonel gave a gesture up toward the birdcage.
“Men, unload them shotguns, drop them out to the floor,” he said.
Latin kept his eyes and shotgun on Albert Shank, who was staring blankly at him from beneath his coachman’s top hat. Across the horseshoe bar, Royal Tarpis held his sawed-off twelve-gauge on Stanley Rait. Delbert “Handy” Pace stood watching as if frozen in place, not letting the colonel or his guards know he had turned sides against them. Bob Adcock, having identified the guard at the bar for Dock Latin, managed to slip into the background between the drunken customers and the standoff.
Overhead, the two guards unloaded the shotguns, held them out between the cage bars and dropped them clattering to the plank floor.
Cheyenne breathed easier, but only a little easier.
“Now tell them to slip their sidearms, unload them and drop them,” he said.
“You heard him, men. Skin ’em and drop ’em,” the colonel said up to the birdcage.
The two guards looked at each other. They slowly raised their Colts from their holsters and began to unload them.
At the bar, the teamster Pettibone heard the shotguns land and jumped in surprise without opening his eyes.
“Has the music stopped?” he asked mindlessly.
“Shhh! Shut the hell up, Pettibone!” the nearby minor hissed again. “We’re being robbed, damn it!”
“Music! Damn it to hell! Play music!” Pettibone shouted, his eyes still closed. He raised his broad hand and slapped it down hard on the bar top, resounding like the crack of a whip.
Hearing the loud sound shatter the tense silence, Latin jerked his head away from Albert Shank for a split second. But a split second was all Shank needed. His shotgun was not in reach, but a Remington came up from his holster, firing at Dock Latin from ten feet away.
“No! Wait!” the colonel pleaded loudly, no doubt in his mind that the Cheyenne Kid would kill Silvia.
But his plea went unheeded as Shank’s bullet nipped the shoulder of Latin’s coat and sent white bits of garment flying in the air.
Albert Shank was not so lucky. Even as he fired wildly again and ducked away from Latin’s shotgun blast, iron pellets slammed his shoulder in a tight pattern, spun him and sent him flying backward head over heels.
Seeing the battle begin, the colonel’s son swung his shotgun toward Royal Tarpis, just as Tarpis pulled the trigger, the blast of his shotgun lifting Stanley’s big head from his shoulders, sending it flying away in a torrent of blood and brain matter.
“Junior, no!” the colonel shouted, still trying to halt the ensuing carnage.
Tarpis turned quickly away from Stanley Rait’s headless corpse, ducked to the side and fired just as Junior Moser pulled the trigger. Junior’s shot missed Tarpis; but Tarpis’ shot hurled the colonel’s son backward and flipped him over the bar. His shotgun flew from his hands. He crawled with one hand to the wall and fell back against it, leaving a trail of blood, alive but with a large hole pumping blood from his shoulder.
Overhead, the two guards had stopped unloading their revolvers and quickly started firing down into the melee. At the post beside the iron wheel, Handy Pace jerked a knife from his boot well, let out a war cry and slashed it through the cage ropes. The colonel dived out of the way as the cage crashed down upon the big horseshoe-shaped bar and split open at its door seams.
The two guards spilled out of the broken cage. Only half-conscious from the fall, they struggled to their feet and stood up in time to see Cheyenne, Dock Latin and Royal Tarpis still unscathed, still pointing guns at them.
“Let’s try it again, Colonel,” Cheyenne said flatly.
“Yes, please!” the colonel said, his hands up, splattered with blood from both Junior’s shoulder wound and Stanley’s head being blown away. “Let me help my son!”
“Do it. Hurry up,” Cheyenne demanded. His hat had been shot away; a bullet graze left a bloody streak along the side of his head. The dove stood against him, wild-eyed in terror.
From either side of the horseshoe bar, Tarpis and Latin bounded over and began gathering the money with both hands. The two stunned guards from the cage stood watching, helpless.
As the colonel hurriedly climbed over the bar top to Junior, grabbing a white bar towel on his way, Cheyenne felt the dove trembling against his chest.
“Hey, sweetheart, are you all right?” he asked gently, his lips brushing against her ear.
Are you all right? she repeated to herself in disbelief.
“You’ve—got—some—nerve!” she said haltingly, shak-
ing all over.
“It comes with the work,” Cheyenne whispered. He kept from smiling to himself. “When we’re through, I owe you dinner.”
Silvia forced herself to calm down enough to speak without sounding shaken.
“You, owe me . . . more than that,” she said.
Cheyenne liked her answer—he liked her, this tough young dove, already thinking how to make something out of all this.
He looked over at the colonel, who stooped beside Junior, stuffing the towel into his gaping shoulder wound.
Moving right along . . . , he told himself confidently.
As he watched his men load the money, keeping his Colt on the guards now instead of against Silvia’s head, Cheyenne whispered into her ear, “You know you’ve got to come with us a ways—until we make s
ure the trail’s is safe.”
“Huh-uh, I don’t think so,” Silvia said defiantly, regaining her composure quickly now that the shooting had stopped.
See? That’s what he liked . . . , he told himself, the way she handed it all back to him. He smiled a little.
“I wasn’t asking you,” he said. “I’m telling you.” He gave a sharp little tug with his forearm, letting her know who was in charge. “You’re going.”
“All right, then, cowboy, it looks like I’m going with you,” she said coldly.
* * *
The colonel, his wounded son, the wounded Albert Shank and the two guards from the cage, Virgil Stokes and Eddie Kindle, stood in a row along the bullet-scarred, bloodstained bar. Behind the bar, Royal Tarpis and Dock Latin finished stuffing money into the large feed sack, tied the top shut with a strip of rawhide and threw it over the bar. It landed at Cheyenne’s and the dove’s feet with a thud.
“I know what you’re thinking, Colonel,” Cheyenne said to Colonel Steadly Moser, making sure the saloon guards heard him. “You’re thinking, ‘I can’t wait to get in a saddle and ride these sumbitches down for doing this.’” He gave him a thin smile and raised his voice a little, the dove still against his chest, but the Colt no longer at her head. “But that’s a mistake—one that will get you killed.”
“You’ve got what you came for. Why don’t you go?” said the colonel. He gestured toward Steadly Junior. “My son needs medical attention bad.”
Ignoring the colonel, Cheyenne passed back and forth in front of the men, Silvia moving along with him. “I have two men out there in the dark. They’re sighted in on this place with rifles. Any of you trying to follow us will be cut down in the street.” He looked back and forth, making sure they understood him. Then he shot a glance at Handy Pace, still standing by the wheel post.
Getting a nod from Cheyenne, Pace stepped forward, hefted the bag full of money onto his shoulder and turned toward the door, giving Virgil and Eddie a sly grin.
“By the way, fellows,” he said to them, “you can work mine and Bob’s shift tomorrow too.”
The two guards glared at him, but they remained silent.
“Let’s go, Bob,” Pace said to Adcock.
Bob Adcock, who had been reluctant at first, then tempted by the lure of fast money, was now excited by his new prospects. He hadn’t fired a shot, but he had been sure to make things appear as if he’d taken a more active role, stepping forward after the shooting stopped with his gun drawn, looking around as if searching for his next target.
“You got it, Handy,” he said, his Colt still drawn and cocked. He gave Virgil and Eddie a smug look as he and Handy Pace filed past them and out the door.
Cheyenne turned to the colonel and said, “Silvia here is taking a little midnight ride with me. I see, hear or smell any of you on my trail, I’ll leave her head hanging on a tree.”
“For God’s sake, Kid!” said the colonel. “You’re leaving riflemen here to pin us down. Why do you need her?”
With Silvia still held tight against him, Cheyenne took a deep breath, smelling her hair.
“Why do I need her?” Cheyenne grinned. “Colonel, that’s a damn stupid question.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Colonel,” Silvia said as Cheyenne guided her with him toward the door. “I can handle this randy jackrabbit.”
“There, see?” said Cheyenne. “She’s a big girl. She’ll be all right—so long as none of you come after us,” he added, a grim, menacing look coming over his face.
Stepping out onto the boardwalk, Tarpis and Latin covering the men inside the saloon from the open front door, Cheyenne looked at the small gathering of townsfolk standing in the street, many of them in their robes and bedclothes.
“If there’s a doctor here in Iron Hat,” he called out to the townsfolk, “you need to send him to the saloon.”
“I’m the doctor,” a young, bald-headed man called out, stepping forward. “Shall I fetch my medical bag?”
“Sounds like a dandy idea, Doc,” Cheyenne said, feeling satisfied now that the job was over and the take looked good. He watched the young man turn and run toward an office farther up the dirt street.
Among the horses standing at the corner of the alley running alongside the saloon, Caroline Udall looked down at the dove, Cheyenne’s arm around her neck. Beside Caroline stood Pace and Adcock, Pace tying the money bag down behind Cheyenne’s saddle.
“Why is she going with us?” Caroline asked Cheyenne in a prickly tone, looking the busty young dove up and down.
Silvia returned Caroline’s harsh stare.
“She’s part of the reason the colonel and his gunnies won’t be dogging us,” Cheyenne said.
“We don’t have a horse for her,” Caroline said.
Cheyenne walked to the hitch rail out in front of the saloon and picked out a strong-looking roan. He sat Silvia up in its saddle and led it to the corner of the alley.
“She does now,” he said.
From the open saloon doors, Tarpis and Latin looked at each other, knowing there had been no mention of or plans made for taking a hostage.
“Always, with the women,” Tarpis whispered to Latin under his breath, both of them shaking their heads.
As Cheyenne sat the dove atop her saddle, he looked across the street and up at the roofline. From a spot atop an apothecary shop, Neil Corkins waved a hand back and forth slowly. Cheyenne did the same, knowing that above him on the same side of the street, Sandy Hollenbeck was also in position with a rifle.
“Pards,” Cheyenne said to Latin and Tarpis, “let’s get out of this town before they start charging us rent.”
From up the dirt street the young doctor came running in his nightshirt, his black leather medical bag in hand, a streamer of gauze sticking out of it, fluttering in his wake.
“Good for you, Doc! Go heal somebody,” Cheyenne said, swinging up into his saddle as the serious young doctor bounded past him and into the saloon.
Latin and Tarpis looked at each other again as Cheyenne and Caroline turned their horses together onto the street, Cheyenne leading the young dove’s horse by its reins, keeping it sidled up close to him.
“One of us is going to have to talk to him,” Tarpis said to Latin under his breath, leaning over toward him as the band rode out of town at a strong gallop.
“That would be you, then,” Latin replied. “I saw how well talking to him went for Riggs and Elkins.”
They rode away into the night, leaving the town of Iron Hat fading into the darkness behind them.
Three miles along the high trail, Cheyenne brought the four gunmen to a halt and looked at them in the moonlight, the two women flanking him.
“Roy, Dock,” he said to Tarpis and Latin, “now that we’ve all three had a chance to see these new men’s work, what do you think about them joining us?”
Tarpis and Latin turned to Delbert Pace with a hard gaze. Pace had started lifting a bottle of rye from his saddlebags. He stopped cold and sat staring.
“I fear with this one around, we’ll always have to worry if our whiskey’s safe,” Tarpis said.
“That’s what I think too,” Latin agreed.
A tense silence set in as Pace raised the bottle the rest of the way from his saddlebags, pulled the cork and took a long swig. He let out a whiskey hiss and passed the bottle to Latin, returning their stares.
“What about it, Delbert?” said Cheyenne. “Can they trust you around their whiskey?”
“If there’s whiskey around, I’ll drink it if I have to cut their throats in their sleep,” Pace said matter-
of-factly, his hand rested on the butt on his holstered Colt.
“You can’t beat that for honesty,” Latin said. He swigged the whiskey and passed the bottle to Tarpis.
�
��Any man won’t kill for whiskey don’t deserve to drink it,” Tarpis said. He turned up a long drink, then wiped a hand over his mouth. “He’s in, far as I care.”
“That’s Pace, then,” said Cheyenne. “What about Bob here?”
Before anyone could answer, Pace’s Colt streaked up, cocked and fired. Bob Adcock flew backward out of his saddle and hit the ground dead. The gunshot resounded out along the hilltops and valleys.
Cheyenne and the two other gunmen sat in silence for a moment.
“Well, there you have it,” said Tarpis. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
They turned their horses as one and rode on.
Chapter 19
Atop the roof of the apothecary shop, Neil Corkins stood with a boot hiked up on the edge of the storefront’s wooden facade, a Spencer rife in hand, the butt of it resting on his thigh. Beneath his wide hat brim, he wore a long tan riding duster with its collar upturned. He held a cigar in his mouth. When he heard footsteps on the roof behind him, he didn’t even look around.
“What are you doing over here, Sandy?” he said. “You’re supposed to be keeping watch over on the other end of town.”
“I got tired of sitting there doing nothing,” said Sandy Hollenbeck. “Nobody’s coming into town from that direction this time of night. Tarpis said Cheyenne has gotten overcautious about somebody being on his trail.”
Watching the saloon below, Corkins gave a short, dark chuckle under his breath.
“Looks like you got here just in time,” he said over his shoulder.
Hollenbeck walked up beside him, stopped and stared down toward the open door of the Sky-High Saloon.
“Yeah, why’s that?” he asked.
“I’ve got one at the window looking back and forth along the street. I figure he’s getting ready to step out onto the boardwalk any minute,” Corkins said. He puffed on his cigar and kept his eyes on the open saloon doors.
