Vigilante Law

by Dale Graham

  ‘Why not get it over with fast?’ Rizzo retorted. ‘I can take him easy.’

  ‘While you’re on my payroll, mister, you’ll obey orders like everyone else.’

  Steiger leaned in close. ‘Start a gun battle here and the authorities will be down on our necks lickety split. Any killing that needs carrying out has to be on the sly or in self-defence. Got that, Squint?’

  Surreptitious glances from passing citizens were aimed at the vigilante gathering. Fear mingled uneasily with doubt. That was what self-styled law under the diktat of a vigilance committee meant. Steiger knew that he needed a semblance of legitimacy for the town to support him and give him the power base to further his dubious ends.

  Ruthless actions could easily be squared away where no witnesses could object. Here, he needed to act under the banner of vigilante law aimed at bringing order to a territory where no official control existed. Blasting a guy like Blue Creek Chisum out of the saddle would require too much explaining away.

  Rizzo shrugged. ‘It’s your call . . . boss. So, how do you plan to stop him delivering that agreement? Just walk up and ask him nicely?’

  The sneering jibe was ignored as Steiger crossed the street to intercept the man who would do just that, but in his own inimitable manner. ‘Howdy there, Gus,’ he greeted an ox of a man who had just stepped out of the hardware store where he worked. ‘You still want the piece of Jaybird land I promised if’n you’d do me that little favour we talked about earlier?’

  The lumbering simpleton paused, his sluggish brain trying to recall what had been discussed. Steiger concealed his impatience. ‘Remember? I asked you to prevent Blue Creek Chisum from depositing a document at the bank in the way you know best.’ He held up his fists, tiny in comparison, being dwarfed by the huge plates dangling beside the hulking gorilla.

  Gus Ordway hesitated. ‘I d-don’t know, Mister Steiger. K-killing a man ain’t to be taken l-lightly’, he stuttered out slowly.

  ‘I seem to recall you dishing out some brutal treatment against Cash Arbuckle; ended badly for him.’

  ‘That was different,’ Ordway protested. ‘He’d been making my life hell. Calling me the town gump all the danged time. I couldn’t take no more.’ Gus was quite content to be called Bucktooth Ordway. That was how he’d been born. But when local tearaways began labelling him ‘the Gump’, it made him see red. Cash Arbuckle had paid the ultimate price for his sleazy attempt to humiliate him.

  ‘Killing is killing, Gus. I’ve kept it quiet so far. But if’n the authorities found out, you’d be heading for the final countdown for sure. This way it stays our secret and you get that land you’ve always hankered after. We can always say he started it.’

  ‘Guess you’re right there,’ the ox nodded. ‘OK, then, I’ll do it.’

  ‘You just need to make sure he throws the first punch, then it’ll be self-defence.’ Steiger breathed a sigh of relief. And just in time as well. Laredo had signalled that their quarry had been spotted entering the southern end of town. ‘So, you know what to do?’ he pressed Ordway.

  The hulk nodded, flexing his ham-like paws as he stepped out into the middle of the street. It was against his simple code of ethics to fight somebody without a good reason. But the vigilante boss was threatening to reveal his fatal error of judgement. What choice did he have? None, it seemed.

  Steiger returned to the Burning Bush and a ringside seat to watch the show. Ben swung into the main street to be met by a man mountain barring his way. He nudged his horse to avoid the obstruction. Ordway followed, forcing him to pull up.

  ‘I can’t allow you to reach the bank, mister,’ the man declared somewhat reluctantly. He was loath to start a ruckus with someone whom he had nothing against. But Steiger had him over a barrel. And that promise of land for a guy like him was the icing on the cake: the chance to walk tall instead of being regarded as the town imbecile. ‘Best you turn round and ride away.’

  ‘I can’t do that, fella,’ Ben replied, nudging his horse forward and barging Ordway aside. But the hulk was not so easily dislodged. He grabbed hold of the reins and made to pull Ben out of the saddle. A boot slammed into the hulk’s chest, throwing him off balance. He fell into the dust.

  Ben took the opportunity to dismount and remove his gun-belt, slinging it over the saddle horn. And there he waited in the middle of the street, watching as his aggressor struggled to his feet. Ordway was momentarily unsure what had occurred; it was normally him who dished out the hard knocks. The abashed look he aimed at this confident stranger was wrapped in a steely determination to turn the tables on the embarrassing prelude. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, mister. Now I’m gonna have to beat your brains out.’

  Ben hunkered down into the classic prizefighter’s stance. One of his early jobs in Roswell, New Mexico had been as bodyguard to the territory’s leading exponent of the noble art of boxing, a newly-arrived contact sport brought over the big ocean from Europe. Bare-knuckle fighting was giving ground to this far more sophisticated sport where skill was considered much more valid than explicit brutality. How a fighter moved about the ring, his defence as well as attack, was encouraged under the auspices of rules devised by the Marquis of Queensbury.

  Gentleman Johnny Monkton was an acknowledged exponent of the craft. It also attracted unscrupulous villains who saw their dubious livelihoods disappearing. As a result, Monkton needed protection and Blue Creek Chisum made the perfect minder. Unfortunately, prior to the sport becoming popularized the prize money was small. An agreement was reached accordingly, by which Ben was instructed in the main principles as part-payment for his services.

  The ungainly stance of the fighters initially caused much guffawing and sniping until it was realized that skilled proponents of Queensbury’s system were outsmarting their opponents. Guile and slick footwork were enabling them to win far more contests against traditional brawlers.

  Gus Ordway was one of those who figured brute force would solve all his problems. It had worked so far. But Gus did not know his own strength, a mistake that led to his current obligation to Web Steiger, who had secretly witnessed the lethal fracas with Cash Arbuckle.

  He stared open-mouthed at the clownish antics of his adversary, a lean-limbed fella jumping about like a marionette. Gus hawked out a brittle guffaw. ‘What sort of fancy fighting is this?’ was the derisory comment as he settled down into his customary gorilla-like posture. ‘You figuring to beat me by dancing around?’

  Ordway didn’t wait for a reply to his caustic jibe. Hoping to catch this jack-a-dandy flat-footed, he rushed in, arms swinging haymaker style. Had they landed, the fight would have been over before it even got started. But Ben was ready for him. He ducked aside quickly as the swingeing tree trunks whistled by overhead.

  Thrown off balance, Ordway rumbled by receiving a stiff one-two in his midriff. The punches were well aimed, forcing the hulk to his knees, clutching at his stomach. A second solid left pummelled his exposed jaw. A gasp went up from the watching audience as blood dribbled from a cut lip. They had seen Gus in action before, but never on the receiving end.

  Ben stepped back, gesturing for his opponent to get up. Ordway’s brain was quickly arriving at the painful conclusion that this guy was no tenderfoot. He lumbered to his feet. But Gumpy Gus did not have the aptitude to alter his style of fighting, and for a man of his bulk he could move surprisingly fast when the situation demanded.

  He stepped forward, catching Ben high on the head with a hard fist that rattled his teeth. Luckily, he was able to duck underneath the follow-up, sidestepping out of range before the ox could grab him in a deadly bear hug. Ben shook the pulp from his brain as Ordway sensed the tide was turning in his favour.

  Unfortunately, the lucky strike had made him less cautious. He made to grab the pugilist, but his lumbering gait played into the hands of his nimble-footed adversary, who easily evaded the clumsy manoeuvring.

  Ben’s dodging around only served to incense the Gump, who had no answer to such alien ta
ctics. ‘Stand still and fight proper,’ he shouted in exasperation. But the plea went unheeded as yet another straight left hammered the exposed chin. Ben followed it up with a right hook that connected with a solid thwack to Ordway’s head. The slow-witted brawler staggered back, struggling to fend off the flurry of bruising, well-placed punches that came his way.

  But he was not beaten yet. A stubborn will not to surrender drove the big guy forward. Grabbing a heavy sack of pinto beans as if it were a feather pillow, he hurled it at the object of his humiliation. Ben stepped aside, the whole caboodle splitting open and scattering the contents every which way. This failure to crush his opponent appeared to dishearten the man, his long ungainly arms falling to his side.

  Ben surmised this could be a ruse inducing him to lower his guard. Fights of this nature were never over until the winner decreed otherwise. And this jigger was still on his feet. Nimbly leaning in, he delivered a couple of punishing blows to the body, following up with a brutal uppercut. Ordway tipped over, crashing into a stack of barrels, which sent him flying.

  Still not ready to surrender, he lumbered to his feet, hoping for one final chance to turn the tables. But it was not to be. Easily blocking the ungainly swipes, Ben delivered the coup de grace, splaying his doughty opponent across a nearby hitching rail. And there Gus Ordway hung like a discarded saddle blanket, blood dribbling from a myriad cuts. He had finally met his match.

  Not wishing to dish out any undue punishment once his challenger had been defeated, Ben stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow and breathing deep. It was a long time since he had needed to exercise his boxing skills, and this guy had put up a good show. But saloon brawling was never going to prevail over a skilled tactician except if sheer bad luck took a hand in the proceedings.

  The bizarre contest had lasted for a little over two minutes. He rubbed his scraped knuckles, starring at the static hulk and wondering why this guy had challenged him. The answer was forthcoming as a leering Squint Rizzo stepped down into the street.

  Steiger had seen the way the contrived situation was leaning, and it was not going in his favour. The Gump was living up to his repugnant name. The clumsy knucklehead’s lethal mitts were of no use against this new type of fighting. He had witnessed a similar contest the previous year in Austin. Something had to be done to regain the ascendancy.

  ‘You can take him now, Squint,’ he ordered the gunman. ‘Fancy footwork ain’t got no chance against hot lead. If’n anybody takes offence, we can say that Chisum was going to finish the Gump off and you stepped in to defend him. I’ll deal with that useless hulk later.’

  Rizzo’s face broke into an ugly grimace as his hand dropped to the butt of the Army Remington. Here was his chance to remove a thorn in his flesh. ‘Didn’t I tell you this is the only way?’ he mouthed, stepping off the boardwalk.

  All of Ben’s attention was focused on the defeated giant as he drew breath into his heaving lungs. He just stood there, oblivious to the deadly threat posed by his nemesis. Before Rizzo could draw his pistol, however, a cutting voice stayed his hand.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Curly Bill Takes a Hand

  ‘Pull that stunt and your guts will be splattered all over the street.’ A hefty jasper boasting a large, drooping moustache stepped out from the shelter of an alley. An unlit cigar poked from between gritted teeth. All eyes swung towards the origin of the brittle warning. ‘The rest of you rannies, toss your hardware into the street.’

  Ben’s startled expression matched those of his adversaries. He was no less surprised to see this visitor from his past. But it was the sawn-off shotgun pointing at Rizzo that caught everyone’s attention. It was a deadly spur not to be challenged.

  Yet only Buckshot Roberts moved to obey. A finger traced a rough course across his disfigurement. The sight of those twin barrels had made his blood run cold. The others stood their ground, unsure of themselves, and waited on the boss’s reaction to this unexpected intervention.

  The newcomer sensed a hint of refusal, a weighing up of the odds. He quickly stymied any imprudent retaliation. ‘That means now, boys, else my friend here does the talking.’ He wagged the shotgun. Half-a-dozen shooters immediately bit the dust. The shotgun wielder’s stiff posture relaxed. ‘That sure was some fancy footwork, old buddy,’ he said without taking his hawkish gaze off the vigilantes. ‘Guess we got some catching up to do since the old days.’

  Ben smiled. The same old, humorous twinkle mixed with a sly half smirk testified to this guy not being easily alarmed. No change there then. Ben hadn’t seen his old sidekick in eight years.

  ‘Curly Bill Redleg!’ Ben ejaculated in shocked surprise. ‘That shooter you’re toting sure don’t get any smaller, do it? And I see you’re still wearing them boot trimmings.’

  ‘Makes life more interesting,’ was the brisk rejoinder. ‘Where in blue blazes did you learn to fight like that?’

  ‘It’s a long story, old buddy. I’ll tell you later. More to the point, what are you doing in Uvalde?’

  The two old friends had met up during the war when they ran with a ruthless band of guerrilla raiders, known as Jennison’s Jayhawkers, who operated in Kansas. The red sheepskin topping on the left boot was primarily for identification. But it soon came to symbolize the ruthless style of undercover warfare waged by the group.

  Such was their notorious reputation that the Northern authorities ordered those caught to be shot on sight. Ben and his pard managed to evade capture and instead became expert snipers for the Southern cause under General Robert E. Lee. After the signing of the peace in 1865, the pair split up and went their separate ways.

  ‘Came looking for you, Blue Creek,’ was the studied reply. ‘Your name came up in conversation while I was taking a well-earned rest in Amarillo. Rumour had it you were having a spot of bother with the federales down Mexico way. Figured you might need some help. Seems I was mistaken.’

  ‘No mistake, pal. I got out of that hell hole by the skin of my teeth.’ Ben’s icy gaze shifted to the stunned face of Squint Rizzo. ‘No thanks to some low-down Judas who sold me down the river. Keep that scattergun nice and steady, Bill. Reckon it’s time to even the score.’ He walked over to his horse and fastened on the gun-belt, settling the rig into its customary position.

  ‘You do what you have to, Creek. I’ll keep these gents company while we watch some more fancy action. That sure was some performance you gave this here gorilla.’ Gus Ordway groaned, struggling to comprehend what had happened.

  Slowly, but with deliberation, Ben walked across and stood no more than two feet from his old partner. ‘Pick up your gun, Squint. We can finish this here and now. Just you and me. None of these guys will interfere. Can’t say fairer than that.’

  ‘You take me for a fool, Chisum?’ Rizzo snarled back. ‘I kill you, and Redleg would gun me down straight away.’ Rizzo had ridden with the infamous Clarke Quantrille. Though fighting for the Confederate cause, neither faction had ever met up to discuss tactics. Nevertheless, the individual names and reps of Jennison’s Jayhawkers were well known. ‘We can finish this some other time when your pal ain’t around to protect you.’

  Ben gave the wheedling riposte a mocking snort of disdain. ‘In that case, you can have this to be going on with.’ A bunched fist, still skinned from its recent encounter with Gus Ordway, shot out and connected with Rizzo’s chin. It packed all the energy and power its owner could muster. Rizzo’s head snapped back, his wobbly legs giving way as he tumbled into the dust.

  ‘Goldarn it, Creek, for a skinny dude, you sure pack a mean punch,’ the impressed Redleg enthused.

  The compliment was acknowledged with a curt nod before he snapped at the bemused turncoat. ‘Like you said, jerk, we’ll meet up again. But next time, I won’t be so lenient.’ He then turned his attention to Web Steiger. ‘I’m going over to the bank now to register my claim, which allows me to run the Jaybird until such time as Chico Lafferty chooses to return from his enforced vacation. Anybody tries to sto
p me and Curly Bill here has my permission to ventilate their hide.’

  The double-barrelled scattergun ensured that no resistance was forthcoming from the cowed vigilantes. Having recovered his senses, Gus Ordway crawled away beneath the boardwalk. Such was his feeling of humiliation he would dearly have loved for the ground to swallow him up, but it was too hard. So he contented himself with disappearing before Steiger made good his threat of retribution.

  Nobody knew nor cared now about Ordway’s whereabouts. All Web Steiger could do was watch powerlessly while that vital delivery was made to the bank. His men were equally ineffective, shuffling their feet and confined to throwing toothless scowls at the grinning gun-toter.

  Five minutes later, Ben returned. ‘So, where to now?’ Curly Bill enquired. ‘My arm’s getting mighty tired holding this hogleg steady.’

  ‘Somewhere we can rest up and make plans.’

  ‘Now that’s a place I ain’t never been before. Lead on, pal.’

  Before they mounted up, Ben had strong words for the leader of the vigilantes. ‘As of now, Jaybird land is off limits, you turkeys. Anybody crosses the divide and I’ll be within my rights to stop them. You’ve been warned.’

  ‘You won’t get away with this, Chisum,’ Steiger retorted. ‘There are too many of us for you to hold that section alone.’

  ‘I ain’t alone anymore.’ He turned to Curly Bill. ‘You with me, buddy?’

  ‘Need you ask?’

  The two old sidekicks backed away, retrieving their horses gingerly and mounting up. That was the moment Steiger made his move. Circumspection was thrown to the wind. ‘Get ’em, boys’, he called out. ‘Don’t let the skunks leave town.’ The vigilantes were about to reach for their discarded weapons when the booming shotgun dug a hole in the street, scattering the hardware in all directions.

  Forced back, the breathing space supplied by Redleg’s deadly shooter enabled the fugitives to hightail it out of Uvalde, leaving Web Steiger once again fuming helplessly. But not for long. ‘Why are you turkeys standing around here like fairground dummies?’ he railed angrily. ‘Get your horses and go after those skunks, pronto. There’s a fifty dollar bonus on each of their heads – dead or alive!’