The Riflemen

by Tony Masero

  Guardeen pondered for a moment, a bad taste in his mouth. “Never held much with looting. Not in the army or outside it. But land now, that might be a thing of value. Good farming land.”

  “Land!” The Governor’s eyes lit up. “Yes, the very thing. What say you to a hundred acres of prime Arizona soil?”

  Guardeen looked across at Thaddeus and quirked an eyebrow, the question implicit in his gaze.

  Thaddeus grinned. “I like it, Mister Nick. I certainly do. Our own place. I like the sound of that.”

  Guardeen laid down his rifle, leaned across the desk, all business now. “Governor, I’d want the papers drawn up before we leave. A legal affidavit giving us free rein on this renegade’s head. I also want to see the spot of land designated for us laid out with boundaries marked. It should all be written down proper and it should say that if one of us doesn’t return then the other receives full remission as stated in the agreement.”

  “Agreed. Leatheridge will see to it.”

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “Yes, what’s that?”

  “Mr. Lincoln started the War with the single ambition of holding the Union together. That was his only aim and determined objective at that time, as I recall.”

  “True, it was indeed,” agreed the Governor proudly.

  “It was later he realized that a whole mess of colored folk in the country were just as patriotic and as brave as our white boys. They were given their freedom by the President and served with honor amongst the Union troops. Even the Confederates allowed them into their own ranks when times got hard enough for them. Thaddeus and me, once he was freed, we served a long time together and I never met a truer soldier my entire time as a sharpshooter.” He straightened up and glared at the Governor. “It appears though that nowadays there’s still some amongst us that think of the Negro as less than the rest. So, right now, Governor, I wants you to get off your behind and come round that mighty impressive desk, then step over here and shake this man’s hand, or we’re not about to do one single thing for you.”

  For a long second, the Governor gaped in surprise at Guardeen. Then he swallowed loudly and removed the cigar from his lips. His features shifted perceptibly and he leaped to his feet. “You are so right, Mr. Guardeen. I do apologize. Most unjust of me. From the bottom of my heart, deepest apologies.” He took the bewildered Thaddeus’s hand in both of his and shook it vigorously. “There you go, sir. I trust you will do your duty for us here as willingly as you did it during your service days.”

  “Trust I will. Thank you, Governor.”

  “Think nothing of it, son. Nothing of it at all. We’re all veterans under the flag here, whatever our color.”

  As they left the Governor’s office, Thaddeus whispered to Guardeen. “I guess he’ll be in his personal privy right now, scrubbing off that black taint, wouldn’t you say?”

  Guardeen smiled back. “I reckon he will at that.”

  “But I’m obliged, Mister Nick. Obliged for you standing up for me like that.”

  “That’s all right, Thaddeus. Be sure you don’t let it go to your head, though. You’re still my man, whatever the late Mister Lincoln said.”

  At that, Thaddeus offered a doubtful eyebrow at the back of Guardeen’s head as he followed him down the hallway. He did not see the smile or the teasing twinkle in Guardeen’s eye.

  Leatheridge ushered them into a side office and begged them be seated. It was a small Spartan place with a dust covered single narrow window and without a hint or clue of the occupying presence. No pictures hung on the walls, no mounted deers’ heads, autographed accolades or framed orders of merit; in fact, no hint of personality whatsoever. It was obviously Leatheridge’s own den.

  “Gentlemen,” he wheedled with an unfortunate nasal whine that scraped upon the nerves. “It is my duty to advise you of further facts not fully covered by the Governor.”

  The man seemed to be a creature in constant motion; he coiled about himself, fiddling with a sleeve, straightening papers on his desk, toying with the handkerchief at his breast pocket. His long fingers were never still, stroking and fondling objects or his clothing. Guardeen found the man unpleasant in the extreme; he reminded the sharpshooter of a restless snake trapped in a bottle.

  “This information is, of course, of the utmost secrecy,” said Leatheridge, “and should not be bandied about. We do have, as I’m sure you foresaw, some inside information. A certain lady loyal to our cause has penetrated the rebel stronghold. A Miss Christine Delaney Lenoir, who has, um ... how shall I put it? Formed an alliance, I think that’s the best way to address it. She has formed an alliance with a member of Wyatt’s command. Lowell Becket by name. He held the rank of Lieutenant in the former Army of the Confederacy. It is through her we receive the most part of our information and it is to her you might be able to turn for assistance should the need arise.”

  “She some kind of loose woman then, this Christine Lenoir?” Guardeen asked.

  Leatheridge released little vents of air from the back of his throat that simulated simpering laughter. “No, no. I don’t believe so. She was once a lady of some position in the north, the daughter of a substantial Boston banking family. Might be you’ve heard of her late father, J. B. Cecil Lenoir of the Calisto, Barton and Lenoir Merchandising Trust Bank?” He leaned to one side, awaiting an answer but, receiving none, went on: “No? Well, anyway, Wyatt ruined her father in an unfortunate business partnership that brought down the entire bank.” He shook his head and made a faint coughing sound as if clearing his throat. “Quite scandalous at the time, many people were ruined and Lenoir took it very badly. He never fully recovered from the embarrassment and shame of the financial loss. Eventually, he took the gentleman’s way out. Wyatt is to blame for his death, so Mrs. Lenoir believes. Apparently, she was devoted to the man and as they say of the ladies...” he sniggered through his long nose; “…Hell hath no fury. Eh? Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

  Guardeen ignored his snide humor and asked, “How does she advise you of her observations?”

  “We have an arrangement. She goes out riding each day. She is accompanied by a bodyguard, of course, as it is dangerous country down there. But on some pretext, a call of nature or whatever, she leaves the trail at predetermined points and hides her scripts to be retrieved later by another of our agents.”

  “You have a layout of this rebel camp?”

  “Unfortunately no, Mr. Guardeen. Colonel Winter sent an Army engineer down to take note but the man never returned; in fact, none of his party was heard of again. It should be stressed, gentlemen, this is a dangerous matter, and caution will be the watchword.”

  “Don’t worry yourself on that score, Mr. Leatheridge. Caution. That’s our middle name. Now, if we can turn to this land grant the Governor offered in return for our services?”

  Chapter Five

  “Explains that ‘Black Band’ shooter anyway,” observed Guardeen as they rode south toward the border some days later.

  “You reckon? How so?”

  “Confederates. Got to be them that hired him. He’s one of their own.”

  “But how’d he know where we were going even before we got there?”

  “Now that’s the interesting part, Thaddeus. In my estimation, old Governor George there has an informer in his office. How else would they have known what he had planned for us?”

  Thaddeus sighed despairingly. “Lord, this is going to be a mighty long journey, I’m thinking.”

  Guardeen chuckled. “Sure seems that way.”

  They followed an old wagon trail gouged out of the desert floor. Deep rutted and dusty, it stretched away in a ragged line. The horizon was lost in an azure heat haze that rippled across the vast sandy emptiness and successfully disguised the spot where sky met earth. Guardeen allowed the ponies to set a relaxed pace. He estimated they were reasonably safe here in the open, without a soul in sight for miles.

  “What do you know of this ‘Black Band’ Doolin, Thadd
eus? All I heard of him is that he was a half Irish child begotten on a Cheyenne squaw that wound up sharpshooting for the Johnny Rebs.”

  “Maybe so, but the way they tell it is that he was real young when he set out on his own particular road to perdition. Started soon as he was out of short pants, they say. Was in that Teaville raid back in ’56 with the Powers Gang when he was no more than thirteen years old. Had his own set of raiders too before the war, holding up trains, raping and killing. A mean man, Mister Nick. Killed himself three scouts out of Fort Englewood over in Alabama. That’s when they put him in the penitentiary. He got out when he signed up and took to killing for the Confederates.”

  “I only ran into him that one time during the war. Thought I’d put him away for good.”

  “I remember it, Mister Nick. He was up there sharpshooting in the rocks on the Round Top and you nailed him clean as a whistle. Head shot, as I recall. Why, we even saw the body. Isn’t that right? Reckoned he was deader than the rocks around him.”

  “Well, either he’s Lazarus risen from his grave right now, or he’s got somebody else using that funeral band signature. But whoever it is, he surely is one hell of a shot. Nearly took my damned head off.”

  “You don’t suppose Doolin would have kin, d’you? Could be some relative carrying the grudge, couldn’t it?”

  “Possible. Would explain some of it.”

  “Makes you restless, doesn’t it? Going to get a sore neck watching our backs.”

  “Indeed, Thaddeus. We’d best keep a keen eye around about and on those high places and shadowed gullies we find ourselves in, I’m thinking.”

  As if the thought commanded it, Thaddeus nervously lifted himself in the stirrups and scanned the entire horizon. After rotating the three hundred and sixty degrees, he plunked down in the saddle again and sucked his teeth in irritation.

  “You’ve seen them?” Guardeen asked with a slight smile.

  “No sir! Where? I didn’t see anything.” Thaddeus was up again, standing in the stirrups and looking wildly about.

  “Off your left shoulder, aways back.”

  “Well I never! I see them now, Mister Nick. I surely do.”

  The figures were there, all right, almost lost in the rippling heat. A conglomerate of wavering dark shapes, floating legless on the horizon.

  “That’s not like you, Thaddeus. You must be getting old. Missing a thing like that.”

  “Maybe so.” Thaddeus squinted into the distance. “You reckon it’s Doolin?”

  “Well, if it is, he’s got some help riding with him.”

  “I make it three. What d’you say?”

  “Hard to tell for sure. Certainly looks that way, but there could be more behind them in the haze.”

  They heard the shot echo hollowly across the open desert.

  “Hell! Must be crazy,” yelped Thaddeus. “They’re shooting at us.”

  “Just letting us know who they are. They’re too far off to do any damage. They just want to worry us some.”

  “Reckon it’s working,” complained Thaddeus, urging his pony on as another shot rattled out, the bullet losing itself somewhere in the empty space between the two parties.

  “Ease up, Thaddeus. We have an advantage here. They’re not going to do anything but waste their ammunition like this and I’m not about to be unnerved by it. We’re the ones who’ll be waiting for them, now we know where they are.”

  Thaddeus nodded in quick relief. “That’s right, Mister Nick. We do have them behind us. Let’s get on and find a place ahead where we can set to and lay into them.”

  “My, my, Thaddeus Johnston,” Guardeen teased. “I surely know you’re getting aged now. Little scratchy and vengeful, huh? You sure are getting uppity these days. ‘Lay into them’, is it? Well, I never. Lord Almighty, this fellow here is looking to cause real trouble.”

  “Mister Nick, we’d better put those rascals in a pine box before they do the same to us. Those boys are not messing.”

  Guardeen grinned at him but then his face straightened in sudden serious agreement. “I know, Thaddeus. Ride on, we’ll find a spot.”

  The place they came to was a sandblasted, worn out collection of wooden mining huts at the foot of the mountains that hemmed the desert plain. Standing at the cutoff from the wagon trail, a weather-beaten sign hung from a rusting chain and advised them it was the town of Ezee Pickins that they were welcomed to. Once zinc carbonate ore was extracted from the green rock walls that rose up sheer behind the deserted ghost town, but now the lode had run dry and the place was left to the desert dust and the wind. Guardeen and Thaddeus split up and rode carefully among the buildings with their rifles at the ready. They circled the small township, cautiously peering into darkened doorways and through broken windows, but they found nothing among the shadows except spiders’ webs and the occasional sidewinder nest.

  They met up again on the main street, where banked piles of wind-blown sand raised dunes that spread high across the warped boardwalks and fought with balls of tumbleweed held trapped by sagging planks of timber.

  Guardeen looked up at the tall spidery uprights of the overhanging gantry fastened to the quarry walls behind the town.

  “That’s my spot, I reckon.” He indicated the platform atop the gantry, where a pulley wheel stood above a metal barrow that once lowered ore to the waiting wagons below.

  “You always go high, Mister Nick. This fellow here is a shooter, he knows you. He’ll be expecting you up there.”

  “That’s why you’re going low. You cut along, Thaddeus and find yourself a good spot down here. Keep moving when it starts. We need to set up a crossfire. Trap them in the open, if we can. You flush them and I’ll nail ’em.”

  “As you say, Mister Nick.” Thaddeus dismounted and scurried off to find a safe place for the horses

  His Sharps across his back, ammunition pouch and water at his waist, Guardeen began the long climb up the wooden poles of the gantry. Only a few broken stanchions and rust trails showed where a ladder had run up the stone wall. The weathered wood of the gantry had dried out in places, as had the ropes that bound the structure. The whole thing was dangerously unsafe, held together by rusty nails and tired rope, but he persevered, convinced of the advantage the view from above would provide.

  From up here, he couldn’t see Thaddeus; his partner probably made himself scarce among the ruined buildings. What he could see, quite clearly, was the wagon trail stretching away beyond the curve of the mountain range: and on it five figures, on horseback. Guardeen offered a cautious whistle, repeating it until Thaddeus’s head bobbed out of cover from under a veranda’s tin roof. With Indian sign, Guardeen indicated the revised number of opponents approaching. Thaddeus waved understanding, and then slid out of sight again.

  Making his way out onto the wooden platform, Guardeen slipped over the rim of the metal barrow that stood forgotten at the edge of the promontory overlooking the town. It was a deep, steep sided box-shaped container with sloping ends, easily large enough to conceal him. The box was rusted through in places and battered by years of use and he didn’t give out much hope as to his safety behind the frail metal walls. Above his head, the large pulley wheel still dangled solidly from a bracket fastened securely to the rock face with enormous rivets. Leaning his Sharps against the side in readiness, he removed his hat and peeped over the edge of the box.

  They were coming. Strung out along the road, two bunched together in the middle of the group and the rest spaced for caution.

  Guardeen took his binoculars from his ammunition pouch and focused on the lead figure. A tall, lean man wearing a black leather waistcoat, a bright flower patterned collarless shirt with two black garters around the biceps and a high, wide-brimmed hat with a single long feather flying from the crown. It was hard to make out the features in the shadows of the brim but the rifle butt protruding from its custom-made leather scabbard was easy to identify. The distinctive and elegant brass-encased curlicued butt of the Morgan James gleamed i
n the sunlight. Now, Guardeen could see why the shooter only clipped him. The rifle still had the old style full-length sight attached to the barrel, a simple tube with crosshairs made out of glued pig’s hairs inside. If it had been one of the more modern William Malcom telescopic sights with an achromatic lens, Guardeen was sure he wouldn’t have been so lucky.

  He grabbed his Sharps and slid a cartridge in the breech. Even before they begin, he discounted two of the men: Guardeen knew that his and Thaddeus’s first shot will certainly account for the first two. After that, it depended on which direction the others took. Whichever way they went, he reckoned that three against two were better odds. He picked away at a rust-hole in the metal side until it was big enough to accommodate the barrel of his Sharps, then he slid the weapon through.

  The band of men approached the hanging sign that pointed the way into Ezee Pickins and he watched as they bunched up, as if deciding whether to take the detour or press on. Their leader pointed out the pony tracks leading away from the road and into the ghost town and their minds were made up.

  Guardeen smiled thinly as the band spread out and came in at a walking pace. He was sighting on the leader when the man slowed his pony. He sensed something, his eyes running carefully over the tall rock face before him, his head tilted up. The man’s face was horribly disfigured, one side chewed up with livid scars that twisted and discolored the flesh. He nodded in recognition. So, you didn’t die at the Round Top, Black Band. Looks like I messed you up a lot though. No wonder you want my hide so bad, you ugly critter.

  Guardeen centered on the man’s chest and then paused. Should he relent and give Doolin a chance to surrender or turn around and leave them alone? Both highly doubtful options and ones that would put him in an immediate disadvantage once his position was exposed. Besides, the man had already tried to kill him once. Why give him another chance? He squeezed the trigger; but, as the rifle boomed out over the township, it was the man in front of Black Band that took the bullet. He’d pulled his horse aside as Guardeen fired and for a moment crossed in front of the half-breed. The shot rider was lifted from his saddle by the force of the heavy caliber bullet and flew limply backwards into Black Band, knocking him from his mount.