Tobe Hankins nodded. It was time to alert Sanchez and his band of killers…
Santa Fe, New Mexico. August 12, 1869.
Gladstone Pitkin, Woody, Gavin, Vic, Rusty, Ash, Wiley, and Whit rode along the narrow streets of Santa Fe. For the occasion, in addition to their Winchesters, Wiley and Whit had been supplied with Colt revolvers.
“We don’t know where this Tobe Hankins is,” Woody said, “but he’ll be waitin’ for us. That’s why they left Nip where we could find him.”
“Look over yonder on that other street,” Rusty said. “Tobe’s Saloon.”
“Maybe that’s what we’re lookin’ for,” said Woody, “but let’s be sure.”
Woody trotted his horse across the street to a livery. With the butt of his Colt, he pounded on the door. A gray-haired old timer opened the door just far enough to poke his head out.
“Pardner,” Woody said, “we’re lookin’ for Tobe Hankins. Would that saloon be his?”
“Yeah,” said the liveryman. He saw the mounted, armed men and quickly closed the door. Woody rode back and joined his companions.
“That’s his place,” Woody said.
“I hope you don’t aim to ask the varmint to surrender,” said Gavin. “If we can’t hang him, let’s at least gut-shoot him.”
“He hires men to do his killing,” Pitkin said. “I don’t expect him to be alone.”
“Neither do I,” said Woody. “We can’t surround the saloon, because we don’t know how many are waitin’ to greet us, or where they are. There are too many false-fronted buildin’s close by. There could be a man with a rifle on the roof of every one.”
“If it becomes a matter of driving Hankins from the saloon,” Pitkin said, “I may have the solution in my saddlebags. I took the precaution of bringing dynamite, caps, and fuses.”
“Pit,” said Woody, “welcome to the frontier. You’ll do. All of you spread out among the buildings surrounding the saloon. I aim to call on Hankins to come out. If nothing else, that should draw some fire, and we’ll see where the killers are holed up.”
There was a vacant building across the street from the saloon, and Woody managed to reach a door that hung on one hinge. He ducked inside. Taking aim with his Winchester, he shot out the glass in the upper portion of one of the saloon’s double doors.
“Hankins,” he shouted, “this is the Pitkin outfit. We found our amigo, Nip Kelly, dead, and he left evidence pointing directly at you. Are you comin’ out of there on your hind legs, or do we have to level the place and drag you out?”
“I’m Hankins,” a voice bawled, “and I have men all over town. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
From two different directions, shots rang out. Lead slammed into the sagging door, ripping it from its single hinge. There were answering shots, as the Pitkin outfit bought in. It appeared the defenders had not holed up in the saloon, but had attempted to circle it, with the intention of ambushing anyone approaching the building. Suddenly there was the rattle of gunfire, and Pitkin literally threw himself through the open door. There was a bloody gash across his chin and his hat was missing.
“I brought some dynamite,” he panted.
“You might also have gotten yourself killed,” said Woody.
“It is capped, with an eight-second fuse,” Pitkin said, producing four sticks.
“I reckon we’ll have to use it,” said Woody. “If Hankins has men scattered all over town, he’ll never come out.”
“Warn him,” Pitkin said.
“Hankins, we have dynamite, and we’re gonna blow that place to hell and gone, if you don’t come out,” Woody shouted.
It brought another volley of shots, some of them coming from the roof of the saloon. Pitkin had lighted a match, and Woody touched a fuse to the flame. With a sputter, the fuse caught. Woody held it a second longer, and then flung it high above the saloon roof. There was a screech from somebody on the roof, followed almost immediately by a puff of smoke and an explosion. The entire front of the saloon collapsed, but still nobody left the building.
“Damn it,” Woody growled, “where are they?”
Beneath the saloon, Hankins and six gunmen crept along a tunnel Hankins had created for just such a purpose. Gavin and the rest of the outfit had been returning fire from the roofs of several buildings, but suddenly all firing ceased.
“They’re gettin’ ready for somethin’,” said Gavin. “Keep your guns handy.”
Suddenly there was shooting from a dozen different quarters. Vic took a slug through the thigh, while lead tore a furrow across Rusty’s back from shoulder to shoulder. The gunmen had worked their way to the outer perimeter of the town, and were seeking to trap Pitkin’s outfit in a cross-fire. But they had overlooked the resourcefulness of Pitkin’s outfit, as well as Pitkin himself. Three riflemen had Pitkin and Woody trapped, firing from behind a huge pile of stacked firewood. Pitkin lit out in a run, lead spurting dust around him, finally taking refuge under a porch. From there, he lighted a dynamite fuse, throwing the explosive directly into the woodpile. The explosion silenced the three rifles. Emerging from the hidden tunnel, Hankins and his companions crept toward an alley that would take them within range of most of the Pitkin riders. But Wiley and Whit had each taken a few capped and fused stieks of Pitkin’s dynamite. While they had no targets at which to shoot, their eyes had been busy, and they saw Hankins and almost half his gunmen coming down the alley, across the street. Each lighted a fuse off the same match and flung the powerful explosive into the alley. Following the horrendous explosion, there were screams of anguish and then silence. Tattered bodies lay in the alley, but Hankins had rolled under a house, escaping the fury of the blast. Crawling to the other side of the house, he crept out alone, a Colt in his hand. To his dismay, he found himself facing Gladstone Pitkin, holding a Winchester under his arm.
“I reckon you’re Pitkin,” said Hankins, cocking the Colt.
“I am,” Pitkin said.
Pitkin dropped to one knee and the slug went wide, but Pitkin’s shot didn’t miss. The Winchester roared once, and the heavy slug ripped through Hankins. He lay unmoving, in a pool of blood. Several of the gunmen Hankins had hired began shouting in Spanish, and suddenly all firing ceased.
“They’re runnin’ for it,” Rusty shouted. “After the varmints!”
“No,” said Pitkin, who had walked to the middle of the street. “Hankins is dead, I think, and while we may never know his motivation, it is enough to be rid of him. Are any of our riders wounded?”
“Vic and Rusty,” Woody said. “Everybody’s accounted for, except for Wiley and Whit.”
But Wiley and Whit had been busy. After throwing the dynamite, they had seen one of Hankins’ men hiding under a house. He had been gut-shot, and his time was short, but Wiley and Whit had dragged him out.
“We reckoned you might want to talk to him,” Wiley said.
“You reckoned right,” said Pitkin.
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” the wounded man snarled.
“Hankins is dead,” said Woody. “You have nothing to gain.”
“What can you tell us about Nip Kelly, and about Hankins?” Pitkin asked.
“I’m Jake,” the wounded man grunted. “I come here with Hankins, from Missouri. It was there that we knowed Kelly. I…never liked him. Was me…that shot…him.”
“Why?” Pitkin insisted. “What did Hankins have against me?”
Jake groaned, and by the silence, they thought he was dead. But he opened his eyes and spoke just once more.
“Your land…railroad…”
“There it is,” said Gavin. “There was talk about the railroad when we first reached Independence. The right-of-way, must be comin’ across your land.”
“I trust it won’t interfere with the raising of cattle,” Pitkin said. “I didn’t come all the way from England to contribute to the building of a railroad.”
The citizens of Santa Fe watched in wonder as the eight men rode out of the village.
While many Americans had come down the Santa Fe Trail, few of them had been the equals of these men.
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Ralph Compton
The Trail Drive Series
THE GOODNIGHT TRAIL
THE WESTERN TRAIL
THE CHISHOLM TRAIL
THE BANDERA TRAIL
THE CALIFORNIA TRAIL
THE SHAWNEE TRAIL
THE VIRGINIA CITY TRAIL
THE DODGE CITY TRAIL
THE OREGON TRAIL
THE SANTA FE TRAIL
THE OLD SPANISH TRAIL
THE DEADWOOD TRAIL
THE GREEN RIVER TRAIL
The Sundown Riders Series
NORTH TO THE BITTERROOT
ACROSS THE RIO COLORADO
THE WINCHESTER RUN
This is a work of fiction, based on actual trail drives of the Old West. Many of the characters appearing in the Trail Drive Series were very real, and some of the trail drives actually took place. But the reader should be aware that, in the developing of characters and events, some fictional literary license has been employed. While some of the characters and events herein are purely the creation of the author, every effort has been made to portray them with accuracy. However, the inherent dangers of the trail are real, sufficient unto themselves, and seldom has it been necessary to enhance their reality.
THE SANTA FE TRAIL
Copyright © 1997 by Ralph Compton.
Trail map design by L. A. Hensley.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0317-2
*A cowhide or canvas slung under the wagon box for carrying dry firewood.
*The Jornada—fifty miles of barren plain, without wood or water.
*Council Grove took its name from a council held by Osage Indians in 1825, with men sent by the U.S. government to mark a road from Missoun to Santa Fe.
*The Goodnight Trail. Book One in the Trail Drive Series.
*Turkey Creek.
*The buffalo gnat was a small black insect that drove humans and animals half mad with pain and aggravation. Their bites caused intense irritation and swelling.
*The beginning of Dodge City. The railroad would reach Dodge in 1872.
*Cynthia Ann Parker, captured by Comanches in 1836, became the wife of a Comanche chief and the mother of Quanah Parker, the last great chief of the Comanches.
*Wife.
*An area along the trail known as the Hundred Mule Heads. The mules perished there in a blizzard during the winter of 1844–45.
*The view from the top of Round Mound was truly spectacular, the climb worth the effort. To the south lay a varied country, rolling to level, with mounds and hills. Far to the north were vast plans, with occasional peaks and ridges. Beyond these was a silver band—the snowpeaks of the Rocky Mountains.
The Santa Fe Trail Page 30
