The Riflemen

by Tony Masero

  Melon Jones sighed. “Look, boys. Here, have your bottle. First shot’s on the house. Then you go and get along out of here.”

  “What you say? Did I hear you right?” Black Band gaped in mock surprise. “You’re about to throw us out?”

  Melon Jones clucked her tongue. “About the size of it. We get enough rednecks through here to know where you boys are going.”

  A fellow along the counter chuckled good- naturedly. “Better listen up there, fella,” he advised. “Miss Melon Jones isn’t a lady to be messing with.”

  Black Band continued to stare coldly into Miss Melon’s dark brown eyes. “Mister, you just shut your mouth, you hear?” he whispered hoarsely from the corner of his tight lips.

  Melon Jones wagged an imperious finger at the man in the corner and there was a snap as he locked his shotgun barrels in place. “Now young Roderick here,” said Miss Melon calmly, “he isn’t too bright in many respects but he is one hell of a shotgun guard. Isn’t that right, Roderick?”

  The young man stood, pushing his chair away and pulling back both hammers on his shotgun. “You boys do as Miss Melon says,” he mumbled. “Come on along, we don’t want any trouble here.”

  Billy Ray laughed with relish as he turned to face Roderick, though his eyes had gone blank and clear and he rested the Colt Revolving rifle casually on one hip. The slender barrel, no more than a pistol with a rifle butt and long barrel, pointed vaguely in Roderick’s direction. “You better set back down, you dumb farmer. Before you get your head blowed off.”

  There was a movement now, people easing away from the bar and out of the line of fire. A scurry at the door as some made a rapid escape into the street.

  Miss Melon slapped both of her big hands down on the bartop with a loud smack. She shook her head, the small, feathered hat atop shivering in complaint. “Now, why are you boys being like this? Here, I give you free drinks and a pleasant greeting and all you’re set on doing is raising hell.”

  Black Band pulled out his revolver and looked at the ceiling in disgust. “My God, I have to listen to any more of your whining, girl and I’m going to put one in you, I swear it.”

  Miss Melon’s face changed, her pleasant pudgy looks hardening as she reached under the bartop and raises a cut down shotgun. “This here thing is loaded with enough ball shot to shred you, my friend. You want some, you come right along over here and get it.”

  Swede brushed them all aside and reached over the bar to pull a full bottle from the shelf. “I need this,” he explained apologetically as he popped the cork. They all watched in awe as he poured a long drink of the powerful liquid down his throat. Swede wiped his lips when half the bottle was done. “That’s better,” he rumbled. “Sorry for the interruption. You folks carry right along now.”

  The saloon doors swung back and a tall, thin man with a creased stovepipe hat entered. “What’s going on?” He bristled. “I got the call there’s trouble here, Miss Melon.” He was dressed in a tailcoat and tartan waistcoat, strapped to his high waist was a large cumbersome pistol and his jacket lapel sagged under the weight of a homemade metal star.

  “What the hell are you?” snarled Black Band, looking him up and down.

  “I’m the elected sheriff here, fella. Name’s Brolin, Caleb Brolin. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  “Can’t say I have,” snorted Black Band. “You somebody important?”

  “That’s enough,” snapped Brolin, obviously disappointed his reputation went unrecognized. “Hand over your weapons, boys.”

  “To hell with this,” snarled Billy Ray; suddenly, he raised his revolver rifle and fired off a rapid trio of shots. Roderick teetered to one side, the wood of the shotgun butt shattering in his hand. The shotgun leaped up in his spasmodically clenching fingers and both barrels exploded, making a mockery of the ceiling. Plaster and lathe cascaded down and with a scream Miss Molly loosed off her own shotgun, but it is no more than an involuntary reaction and the shot was wide, hitting the shoulders of one of her customers, who fled across the room, buffeting into Black Band and knocking him off balance.

  Swede meanwhile caught the sheriff a heavy cuff behind the ear with his half-empty bottle. Sheriff Brolin staggered dazedly, his hand reaching for his bulky sidearm as Swede caught him another hefty downward blow that put a serious dent in his stovepipe. The sheriff fell forward, his forehead connecting sharply with the molded bartop edge, and his eyes glazed he slid slowly to the floor.

  “Now!” bellowed Black Band angrily, his pistol locked on Miss Melon’s forehead. “You really irritated me, woman. Look what you’ve done; all this is down to you and your ignorant behavior. You come round that counter there and bring me a bottle this instant. The rest of you, get out of here unless you want some of what they got.” There was a scramble for the door as the remaining customers hurried to leave. “And take that with you,” ordered Black Band, indicating the shoulder-wounded customer whimpering on the floor at his feet.

  When the room was cleared, Black Band turned again to Miss Melon, who stood shaking nervously behind the bar with a full bottle of liquor in her hand. “I said, bring it over here. Me and the boys are going to sit a spell, take a taste while you go get our dinner.” He spoke with cold precision now, the earlier anger dissipated with the brief burst of violence. “Don’t even think of running off. Because I’ll just have to come and get you and bring you back here and you won’t like it if I have to do that. Now go and get us some eats.”

  The three men sat at a table and Billy Ray giggled as Miss Melon came across with shot glasses and a bottle. “I’ll tell them to get your vittles,” she said grimly, plonking the bottle down hard on the table with a venomous look at all three.

  “Oh no, no, no.” Black Band shook his head and waved his pistol barrel at her. “I said you go get our grub. And I meant you! See, you have to learn your proper place, Missy High an’ Mighty Proprietor. Why, we haven’t been waited on by a black serving girl since before the War, ain’t that right fellas?”

  “Sure is,” sneered Billy Ray with a high-pitched titter.

  “What you say there, Billy Ray?” rumbled Swede. “Why, you wasn’t even out of short knickers during the War.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” snapped Billy Ray. “I know what he means.”

  “Aw, shut up, the two of you,” growled Black Band. “Now get along, Missy Melon Jones.”

  As she moved off to the kitchen, Swede watched her ample rear roll away with an appreciative glare. “That’s a lot of woman. Maybe, if we got time after we eat, I could visit with her a while, what d’you say Black Band?”

  Black Band Doolin looked after the woman under lowered brows, his lip curling in malevolent distaste. “There’s only one thing we got time for afterwards. We going to burn this unholy mudhole to the ground. Can’t abide no uppity proprietors, that’s a fact.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Billy Ray said with breathless anticipation. “Oooh, yeah. Kind of like dessert, you mean, huh?”

  Doolin poured them all a glass then raised his before them. “Now, a toast, you dumb and ignorant white trash. To the greatest flag that was ever raised in glory. The Stars and Bars forever!”

  Chapter Eight

  As an adobe structure based around the remains of an old Mexican hacienda, Fort Benson was already fortified against Indian attack in the past. The arrival of the 10th Cavalry unit meant the added investment of new, higher and thicker walls around the place and included a large parade ground in front of the remaining hacienda buildings. Into this busy area, both Guardeen and Thaddeus entered after their initial challenge and statement of business at the gate. It was obvious a patrol was about to take its leave, as the place was a dusty scramble of running soldiery, nervy pack animals and horses. The men stationed here were colored troops, cavalry nicknamed “Buffalo Soldiers” by the Indians: said to be for their kinked and curly hair that reminded the Indians of the neck growth on the bison. Hardened troops, many staying in the army after the Civil War, they’d led an
honorable and fierce campaign against the fighting Apache.

  “Pleasure to see you again, gentlemen,” Colonel Winter greeted them in his office. It was a large, spacious and well lit room, in an earlier life the main lounge of the hacienda. Tall windows, their shutters locked back, allowed sunlight to stream in. Looking somewhat out of place in the homely environment, an array of desks congregated in front of a rough-hewn stone fireplace at one end. Winter said that he shared the space with three other men, a captain, a lieutenant and an orderly sergeant, though the other two officers were absent at present, organizing the upcoming patrol.

  “Afraid you catch me at an awkward time. We have news of a raid. Rustlers, we think. Mr. Longfellow here is quite disturbed by it.” He indicated a lean man in dusty clothes who sat hunched in a leather armchair, his head in his hands. Guardeen noted that the man’s hands trembled, either with shock or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell. Dust stains covered his clothes, suggesting he’d ridden hard. “Mr. Longfellow, isn’t too sure who they were. Just that they attacked his property earlier this morning. He was returning from selling some ponies up north and came upon the gang after they’d successfully put down all resistance at his ranch. The property was fired and stock driven off. Thing is, they have taken his daughter...”

  Longfellow looked up suddenly, his eyes red rimmed and edged with white dust. “You got to help me,” he begged. “Lord knows what those animals will do to my girl. My poor Emily. She’s just a child.”

  “How old’s your girl, Mr. Longfellow?” Guardeen asked.

  “No more’n eight years. She’s a gentle creature, wouldn’t hurt–”

  “She’ll be all right, right off. They probably intend to sell her as a serving girl down south. So don’t fret so much, sir. Army here’ll have her back before any harm’s done.”

  Longfellow’s face shed a little of its concern at Guardeen’s firm reassurance. “You think so? Great God, I hope so. Thank you for that kind thought, sir, I’m obliged. But I’d sure like to have her with me, she’s all I have left now.”

  Winter’s eyes met Guardeen’s and they both knew the lie he told was merely to comfort the man and very far from the likely outcome. Winter turned to the open faced husky Negro orderly with the stripes on his arm. “Sergeant Bull, take Mr. Longfellow over to the surgeon’s station. He’s pretty shaken up and needs some rest, I believe. On your way, ask Captain Gently when B Company will be ready to leave, will you?”

  “Sir!” The sergeant led Longfellow gently by the arm and guided him toward the door.

  Longfellow freed his arm suddenly, and turned swiftly on the Colonel. “Sir, I can’t set here while my girl’s in the hands of them beasts. I have to go with you.”

  “You’re all tuckered out, Mr. Longfellow,” Guardeen said quietly. “Do like the Colonel says. You’ll be more of a hindrance out there, all beat up like you are now.”

  “You reckon?” Longfellow asked, doubtful.

  “Sure. You get along and take a sip or two of brandywine at the Doc’s. Make you feel a whole lot better.”

  With a tired sigh, Longfellow nodded and followed the sergeant out.

  “Certainly got your hands full, Colonel. Sorry to intrude at such a time,” Guardeen said.

  The Colonel moved over to a map-strewn desk and indicated they should accompany him. “Don’t concern yourself, Mr. Guardeen. This is not an uncommon occurrence these days. We have a mixed renegade band loose. I think this raid is bound to be their work. They’ve been all fired up by some half crazy Commanchero. Calls himself, ‘Johnny Two Steps’. Lunatic’s got some eight or ten men with him, they’ve been raising Cain around here for a month now.”

  “Going to be hard catching up to them,” Guardeen observed.

  Winter sighed. “That’s the truth of it. I have to admit. But tell me, how is your mission for the Governor going?”

  “We have a small problem, Colonel. It would appear that someone in the Governor’s office is letting on about our little project to certain interested parties. We’re being trailed by a band of killers. They’ve tried to shoot us down twice now but, as you can see, failed at it. We’ve managed to take out two of them but there’s still three coming on after us. It isn’t a particular inconvenience just a danged nuisance, having to watch your back all the time.”

  Winter pored over his maps, finger and thumb stroking his cavalier moustache as he seemed to study possible lines of movement from the Longfellow smallholding. “I see. D’you know these fellows?”

  “Indeed, they’re led by an old Confederate sharpshooter. A half-breed with a scarred face called Doolin; they call him Black Band Doolin. He has with him a red-bearded buckskin clad fellow known as Swede Gunnarson, old mountain man you can smell a mile off. And one other gunhand, Billy Ray Laforge, carries a Colt Revolving rifle.”

  “Hmm, we do have news of them, Mr. Guardeen. Passing rider brought the tale ahead of you. Your three men made a whole mess up at Closeup Junction. Beat the sheriff there unconscious and set a saloon on fire before riding out calm as you please with no one to stop them.”

  Guardeen nodded. “Sounds like their kind of handiwork right enough.”

  “Well, we’ll keep an eye out for them and I’ll leave orders to hold them in custody if they turn up.”

  “Unlikely they’ll pass by here directly, but I appreciate it, Colonel.”

  “Now, Mr. Guardeen, I wonder if you can do me a small favor in return?”

  “What’s that, Colonel?”

  “I’d like to use that long arm of yours. I hear you have a keen eye with the Sharps. Could be you’d be mighty useful helping us get that little girl back. My guess is they’ll be heading down into the Nations and if my thinking is right that’s the very route you’ll be taking yourselves.” He looked up from his maps and grinned conspiratorially. “Why else would the Governor want a pair of experienced sharpshooters if he wasn’t planning a long-range kidnapping attempt? Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it. That fellow Wyatt has been a thorn in my side for quite a while now. Giving aid and succor to the redskins and raising an army of insurgents over the border. Be done with him, I say. So, seeing as you’re heading down to Montanãs de las Lagrimas anyway, perhaps you might accompany us on this patrol and maybe help us get ahold of a crazy Commanchero gang whilst you’re about it.”

  Guardeen glanced at Thaddeus, the question obvious in his eyes.

  Thaddeus paused a moment for reflection then nodded. “I don’t like the idea of them taking that little girl. I’ll go.”

  Guardeen grinned. “Be glad to do all we can to help, Colonel.”

  They rode out within the hour, Guardeen and Thaddeus barely having time to wheedle a slice of bread and cheese from a cookhouse orderly and manage a quick wash and shave before the bugler signaled departure.

  Guardeen approved of the appearance of the troops as they left the fort in a column of twos, a handsome band of young Negroes that looked fit and ready for action. Discipline here was of the right order, he noted. Strict in things concerning safety and obedience, but lax in more peripheral concerns, such as dress. All of them were dressed in the regular cavalry blue blouses but beyond that, things took on there own dimension. Hats might be big or small, furled or flapped, bandanas were not the regulation canary yellow but a range of colors and brightly patterned or dull depending on the wearer’s taste. Some wore corduroy pants, some regulation blue; some were tucked into boot tops, others not. One thing they all had in common was the heavy Navy Colt strapped by a canvas ammunition belt to their waists and the Sharps carbine hanging beside their saddlebags.

  Two muleteers followed in the rear, their beasts loaded with supplies. The mules were considered more suitable for mountainous country than a wagon. Colonel Winter took the lead riding up front with Sergeant Bull by his side, leaving his fellow officers, Captain Gently and the Lieutenant in command of the fort. Unsure of where to fit into the column, Guardeen and Thaddeus took up station beside two troopers riding behind the Col
onel, Able Moses the guidon bearer and Keb James, the young bugler.

  As they neared the Longfellow ranch, Colonel Winter ordered his scouts out. They had Yaqui Indian scouts riding with them and the two solemn-faced men sped off in a cloud of dust without a word. Sergeant Bull ordered Moses to roll his guidon and the bearer obediently sheathed the color flag emblazoned with the number nine. Moses turned to Guardeen and Thaddeus as he completed the task and covered the flag with a canvas sleeve. “You boys going to be traveling alongside of us?”

  “For a spell,” obliged Guardeen.

  “Where you all going then?” asked the bugler James.

  “We’re just here for the company,” avoided Guardeen.

  “Keen eye and a long arm, huh?” chuckled Moses.

  “Something like that,” Guardeen agreed.

  “What about you, mister? You waiting on this man?” James Thaddeus asked.

  “Name’s Thaddeus Johnston, trooper, and I go my own way now.”

  “Amen to that,” Moses said and laughed. “Although you join this man’s army and sometimes you feel like old step-'n-fetchit never left the house.”

  The sergeant up front indicated to the Colonel the return of the scouts. The Colonel turned in his saddle. “That’s enough now, men. Quieten down. Mr. Guardeen, appreciate you coming up here.” He halted the troop. Guardeen joined him and they waited for the scouts to come in.

  Moses whispered to Thaddeus with a grin. “You sure you’re not still waiting on the man? Didn’t call you up there for any consultation, did they?”

  Thaddeus looked across at him stony faced, although an amused glint glowed in his eye. “I’m called upon only when it’s more serious stuff. They know best when not to trouble me.”