“What’s going on?” he asked.
“We’ll take your gun,” one of the soldiers said.
“The hell you will,” Cal answered. “Why should I give you my gun?”
“It’s the law.”
Cal shook his head. “I’ve lived here a long time,” he said. “And I’ve never heard of such a law. In fact, I don’t think Sheriff Carson would even let such a law get passed.”
One of the men spat a wad of tobacco at the wheel of the buckboard, then wiped his lips with the cuff of his shirtsleeve.
“Carson ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” the tobacco-spitting soldier said. “This here town is under martial law.”
“Martial law? What does that mean?”
“It means you do exactly what we tell you to do, or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else you go to jail. Now, you goin’ to give us the gun, or not?”
“Take it,” Cal said menacingly.
One of the soldiers made a move toward Cal, but almost quicker than he could see it happen, a gun appeared in Cal’s hand. The other soldier raised his rifle and started to jack a shell into the chamber, but even as he was operating the lever, Cal was firing. His bullet hit the rifle stock, right in front of the soldier’s hand, causing him to drop the weapon.
Both soldiers were stunned into submission.
“You,” Cal said, looking at the soldier who still had his rifle, though he wasn’t holding it in a threatening way. “Jack out all the shells.”
The soldier pumped the lever several times.
“Gun empty?” Cal asked.
“Yeah,” the soldier replied.
“Good. Point it at your friend here, and pull the trigger.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
The soldier pointed his rifle at his friend.
“Amon, no! What are you going to do?”
Amon hesitated for a second, then jacked the lever one more time. Another cartridge flipped out. He pulled the trigger, and there was a snapping sound as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“Now, empty the other rifle and do the same thing.”
Again the lever was jacked up and down several times, until a metallic click of the hammer falling on an empty chamber proved that the rifles were empty.
“Pick up the shells and put them in the back of the buckboard,” Cal ordered.
The soldiers responded and a moment later, there were fourteen shells lying in the back of the buckboard.
Cal’s next move was to make them drop their rifles in a nearby watering trough. Then, and only then, did he feel safe enough to present his back to the two soldiers as he drove into town.
Cal left the buckboard in front of the general store, provided the store clerk with a grocery list, then walked across the street to Longmont’s Saloon. He had just greeted Louis Longmont when four armed soldiers suddenly rushed into the room behind him. All had their guns drawn.
“Put you hands up, mister!” one of the soldiers said gruffly. “You are under arrest.”
“For what?” Cal said, turning toward them.
The soldiers considered the abrupt turn threatening, and the one nearest Cal slammed the butt of his rifle into Cal’s face. Cal went down and out.
* * *
Sally wasn’t too worried when Cal didn’t come back right away. He was young, and enjoyed getting into town, so she figured he had found something to occupy his time. When she happened to look outside late in the afternoon, she saw the buckboard coming up the lane. She smiled and stepped out onto the porch, intending to ask Cal if he’d had a good time. But the smile left her face when she saw that the team wasn’t being driven. The horses had returned to the ranch on their own.
The team headed straight for the barn, then stopped. Sally hurried out to the buckboard and looked around. She saw no sign of foul play, but neither did she see any sign of Cal.
“Cal?” she said aloud. “Cal, are you hiding somewhere, playing a trick on me? Because if you are, it isn’t funny.”
One of the horses whickered, and stamped his foot. Sally went over to him, and patted him gently. “You’ve been in harness all day, haven’t you, boy?” she said gently. “Let me get you out of there.”
Sally unhitched the team and turned then into the corral. Then she went back inside and changed out of her dress and into a pair of denim trousers and a red wool shirt. She tied up her hair, then covered it with an old felt hat. After strapping on her Colt .44, she topped the ensemble off with a sheepskin coat. The coat not only provided warmth against the bracing chill, it also completed the picture so that, on casual glance, one would think they were seeing a young man. That was exactly the way Sally wanted it.
It was dark by the time she reached Big Rock. She was just riding past Josh Dobbins’s livery when she was challenged.
“Halt!” a voice commanded.
“Halt? Did you say halt?” Sally replied, surprised by the call. She pitched her voice low.
Two men, dressed as soldiers, stepped out of the shadows of the livery. “You packin’, mister?”
“What’s going on here?”
“We’re askin’ the questions,” the talkative soldier replied. “Are you carrying a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Take it out real slow-like, and drop it in the dirt.”
“Why should I?”
The talkative soldier jacked a shell into the chamber of his rifle. “Because, by God, I told you to,” he said. “Now, do you have any more questions?”
“No,” Sally replied quickly. “I’d say that pretty well does it for me.” Sally slipped the pistol from its holster and let it fall. She had another one in the pocket of the jacket, but she made no move toward it, nor did she mention it.
“Case you’re wonderin’ about things, this here town is under martial law.”
“Martial law?”
“Yeah. Case you ain’t heard, we got us a Injun war goin’ on.”
“No,” Sally said. “I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Colonel Covington, he’s done took over ever’thing—sheriff’s office, telegraph office, the newspaper even. You goin’ to spend any time in this town, you better watch your p’s and q’s.”
“Yes,” Sally said, still keeping her voice low. “Thanks.” She started on into town.
“And whatever it is that you’re a-doin’, best you have it done before ten o’clock. That’s curfew.”
As Sally rode down the middle of the street, the sound of her horse’s footsteps echoed back from the dark buildings. She had been in Big Rock after dark many times before, but the entire town seemed changed now. It took her a moment to figure it out; then she realized what it was. There was very little sound coming from any of the saloons, no boisterous conversation, and most noticeable of all . . . no laughter.
Sally dismounted in front of Longmont’s. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t go into a saloon alone, especially at night, even a place like Longmont’s. But this wasn’t an ordinary situation. Looping the reins around the hitching rail, she went inside.
Longmont’s was doing a brisk business, but it didn’t look as if anyone was enjoying himself. Rather, the customers were all sitting around with glum expressions on their faces, drinking almost mechanically. Even the bar girls, who normally flitted around like brightly colored butterflies, were sitting together at one table, engaged in quiet conversation. The only animation came from the half-dozen or so men who were in military uniforms.
As usual, Louis was sitting at his table in the back of the room. He was playing solitaire, and he dealt three cards, facedown, then studied the layout in front of him. Sally walked straight to his table.
“What can I do for you, mister?” Louis said, without looking up.
“Louis,” Sally said. It was all she said.
Looking up, Louis recognized her, and his face became animated and he started to say something, but was cautioned against it by a small, almost impercep
tible nod from Sally.
“Uh, sit down, mister,” Louis said.
Sally sat across the table from him. “Louis, have you seen Cal?” she asked.
Louis nodded. “They’ve got him in jail.”
“Monte has Cal in jail?”
Louis shook his head. “Not Monte. The Army. We’re under martial law now.”
“Yes, that’s what the men said at the edge of town when I rode in. They took my gun.”
“One of the first things Covington did was declare that no guns could be carried by anyone but members of the militia.”
“What about Monte? Where does he fit into all this?”
“He doesn’t fit,” Louie said. “In fact, he’s not even in town now. He took the afternoon train to Denver to see the governor.”
“Why didn’t he just send a telegram?”
Louis shook his head. “No telegrams can come or go without Covington’s permission.”
“Why is Cal in jail? What did he do?”
“Far as I know, the only thing he did was not give up his gun when they asked for it.”
“Smoke gave him that gun,” Sally said. “He’s not likely to give it up to anyone without a fight.” She sighed. “I’m going to get him out. Do you know if bail has been set?”
“Bail? I doubt if Covington will allow bail.”
“Well, bail or no bail, I’m going to get him out. I can’t let him stay there.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I don’t know yet,” Sally replied. “But if you’ve got any ideas, I’d be more than happy to listen to them.”
“I’ve got one idea,” Louis said, breaking into a broad smile.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Louis Longmont was standing in the dark just outside town, behind an old tannery building. The building was unoccupied now, and had been for a few years, ever since the tanning operation went out of business. Now there was nothing left of the once-thriving business, except four walls and a caved-in roof. Louis had bought the property and had plans to build a boot store there, as soon as he cleared the old building away. Tonight was the night he decided to clear the building away.
Louis was holding a bow and four arrows. Each arrow was wrapped in cloth, and each of the cloth wrappings had been soaked in kerosene. Louis lit one of the arrows, fitted it to his bow, pulled the string back, then let the arrow fly. The arrow described a long, high, beautiful, flaming arc through the sky. It landed on what was left of the shake roof of the old tannery building, and almost immediately, the building began burning.
Louis let out a long, bloodcurdling scream, yelling the way he perceived an Indian would yell. Another flaming arrow arced through the dark sky.
“Indians!” someone shouted. “Help, someone! We’re being attacked by Indians.”
Louis changed positions before he launched the third arrow.
“Where’s our guns? Give us our guns so we can defend ourselves!”
A fourth flaming arrow arced through the night sky and though no one in town realized it, this would be the last arrow of the “Indian” attack.
Suddenly, those who did have guns, the militamen, began shooting out into the dark, toward the direction from which the arrows had been launched. Louis was in no danger, however, because by the time the militia got organized enough to return fire, he was gone. He could hear the ripple of fire as he stepped up onto the porch of his saloon.
“I see ’em!” someone shouted. “There’s hundreds of them!”
“Yeah, I see them too!” someone else shouted.
The gunfire increased as the soldiers fired into the woods just out of town. Now, every shadow was an Indian and every branch a warrior, waiting to take their scalp. As Louis stepped into his saloon, he saw Covington running up the middle of the street, heading toward his panicked men.
Louis laughed as he sat back down to the card game.
“All right, Sally, girl, the rest is up to you,” he said quietly.
* * *
Sally waited in the dark behind the jail. When she heard the shooting, she moved through the shadows to the jail window.
“Cal?” she called. “Cal, you in there?”
“Sally!” Cal said. His head appeared in the window. “What’s goin’ on? What’s all the shooting?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sally said. “Anyone else in there?”
“No. The fellas who were here ran outside when the shooting started.
“Any other prisoners?”
“No.”
“Good,” Sally said. “Get away from the wall, far as you can. Take the mattress off your bed and get under it.”
“What are you going to do?”
Sally held up a stick of dynamite. “I’m going to get you out of here,” she said.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“What is there to it besides lighting the fuse?” Sally replied. She struck a match, then held a flame to the fuse. When the fuse started sputtering, she looked up and saw that Cal was still at the window, watching with great interest. “If I were you, I’d get back,” she said calmly.
“Oh, shit! I nearly forgot!” Cal said, scurrying to get to the far side of the room. Sally too hurried to get out of the way.
The fuse snapped and sputtered for a moment; then the stick of dynamite exploded with a flash of light and a loud boom. A substantial part of the back wall of the jail came tumbling down.
Sally ran to the wall, then started waving her hand against the smoke and the dust. “Cal!” she called. “Cal, you all right?”
Cal appeared then, coughing and wheezing. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Let’s go.”
Cal picked his way through the rubble.
“We’re going to have to ride double,” she said.
“Wait,” Cal said.
“Wait? Wait for what? We’ve got to get out of here!”
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere without my pistol,” Cal said. “Smoke give me that gun and I’m not leavin’ it.”
“Cal, don’t be an idiot. We can get it later.”
“I don’t trust these sons of bitches,” Cal said, moving along the side of the jailhouse, heading for the front. “I’m going to get it back.”
“All right, get it,” Sally said. “But hurry up!”
The shooting was still going on at the far end of town, augmented by the shouts of the soldiers and even a few townspeople. The old tannery was burning fiercely by now and half the street was lit by the wavering orange glow. Cal sneaked around the corner of the jailhouse, then slipped inside. He jerked open the desk drawer, removed his pistol, and strapped it on.
“What are you doing?” Someone said suddenly, and Cal looked up to see that one of the men who had been watching the jail was back. He was standing in the door, pointing his gun at Cal. “Get back in the . . .” When he saw the entire back wall gone from the jail, he gasped. “What in the hell? How did that . . . uhng!” He was interrupted in mid-sentence by a blow to his head. He fell to the floor unconscious. There, behind him, stood Sally, her pistol in her hand.
“Come on, let’s go,” Sally said. “I don’t know how long he’ll be out.”
“You’re really something, Sally,” he said. “If you weren’t already married and if you weren’t so old, I’d marry you.”
“Old?” Sally said sharply. “How’d you like to walk home?”
Cal laughed out loud. “I was teasing, Sally. I was just teasing,” he said.
Hurrying out front, both of them mounted Sally’s horse. Then she urged it into a gallop. Even though it was carrying double, the horse responded quickly, and they were out of town before anyone knew they were gone.
20
Jack Tatum lay on a flat rock halfway up a hill that overlooked a stage depot known as Miller’s Switch, named after Tony Miller, the man who ran it. He watched as the coach from Stonewall to San Luis pulled into the station. Even when the stage was several hundred feet awa
y, he could see the horses’ sides heaving and the clouds of steam from their nostrils, evidence of the effort they had put out pulling the stage up the long hill. The driver brought the team to a halt, then set the brake.
A middle-aged, heavyset man came out of the way station to meet them.
“Hi, Tony,” the driver said to the man who had come to greet them.
“Hey, George,” Tony replied. “You made good time this morning. You’re about fifteen minutes early.”
“It’s a good, strong team,” George replied.
“Keep this up, you’ll be into San Luis before three. How many passengers you carrying?”
“Just four this trip.”
“Hope they’re all hungry. The missus cooked for eight passengers. You all go on inside, I’ll take care of the team.”
“Thanks,” George replied. Then, yelling down to the coach, he added, “Okay, folks, we’ll change teams here. There’s food inside for anyone that wants to eat, and the facilities are out back.”
George climbed down from the box. The shotgun guard climbed down as well, leaving his gun under the seat. When the coach door opened, four passengers got out: three women and a man.
From his position on the rock, Tatum watched them cross the yard toward the main building, where they were met at the door by a woman wearing an apron.
“Welcome folks,” Tatum heard the woman say. “Come on in. We’ve got baked chicken and dumplin’s today.”
Two liverymen who worked at the way station joined Tony then, and the three of them started unhooking the horses so they could change the team.
Tatum slid back down from his position on the rock.
“What’s it look like down there?” Pigiron asked.
Tatum smiled. “Looks like we’re going to have chicken and dumplin’s for dinner,” he said.
“That’s good, because I’m getting plenty tired of beans, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Let’s go,” Tatum said as he mounted his horse.
Tatum and the others moved in single file down the narrow trail that led to the road and Miller’s Switch below. They rode by the coach, which was now standing empty and devoid of its team, and headed straight toward the corral. Just inside the corral fence, Tony and his two workers had rounded up fresh horses and were just beginning to put them in harness.
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