by Ralph Cotton
“A galvanized Yankee from the Galveston Raiders . . .” Gant pondered the coincidence, then said, “That would have sure converted me if they offered it.”
“Me too.” Lucas nodded and went on. “Siedell became the North’s highest-ranking galvanized officer at that time. It was quite a feather in Abe Lincoln’s hat, bringing a Southern regular colonel over to his side. When the war started swinging toward the Yankees’ favor, Grant commissioned Siedell as a colonel in the army of the North. Hearing about it nearly killed all of us ol’ rebel freebooters—him and Max Bard was best of pals until then. We’d been looking for a chance to bust him out of prison.”
They turned their horses and rode along at a walk; Gant listened closely and shook his head as Lucas continued.
“Imagine,” he said, “switching over and becoming a Yankee officer.”
“I know,” said Lucas, “but switch over he did, and he never looked back. At the end of the war, one word from him and Bard and all of us would have been pardoned. But Siedell wouldn’t lift a finger. He was busy building himself a fortune by then.”
“Did you want to be pardoned?” Gant asked.
“Hell no,” said Lucas, “but that ain’t the point. Everything else Siedell done could have been overlooked as trying to stay alive. But when he turned his back and was willing to let us all hang when he could have cleaned the slate, so to speak, it was all that Max and Holbert Lee and the rest of us ol’ boys could take.”
“The son of a bitch,” Gant said in a lowered tone. “Nobody does his friends that way.”
“We was the only friends King Curtis Siedell ever had that he could trust,” said Lucas. “Maybe that’s why it suited him to see us all dead—figured whatever we knew about him would die right along with us. He made himself rich. They say a man gets rich enough he don’t have friends he can trust anymore. He’s just sitting on a mountain of riches that he thinks will be taken from him at every turn.”
Gant rode along in silence, letting it all sink in.
Lucas paused and let out a breath.
“Anyway . . . that’s where it started between us and Curtis Siedell. The War of Northern Aggression ended and our own private war began. Siedell and us have been out to kill each other ever since.”
“And nothing’s ever going to make things right?” Gant said.
Lucas just looked at him.
“Have you not been listening to me?” he said. “We’re making it right. We’re killing each other at every chance. These are matters of wronged honor. Killing and dying is the only things that ever settles wronged honor.” He gazed at Gant. “You ever heard of any other way?”
Gant shook his head, not even having to consider the question.
“No, I expect I haven’t,” he said.
The two turned forward in their saddles, but before going three more yards, they stopped abruptly, seeing the three figures on horseback spring into the trail facing them. Both men grabbed for their holstered revolvers, then caught themselves and eased down when they recognized Max Bard, Holbert Lee Cross and Worley staring at them from ten yards away.
“Damn it to bloody hell!” said Dewey Lucas to the three. “I wish you wouldn’t do that—jump out and spook a man that way.”
“We heard gunfire, Dewey. Besides, you’re too old to be spooked by anything,” Cross said, smiling, nudging his horse closer.
“The gunfire wasn’t us,” Lucas said.
“But we didn’t know that, did we?” said Cross. “What if it was the colonel’s men, instead of us, catching you unawares?”
“Then I expect you’d be dead instead of sitting there grinning like a possum on a pine nut,” said Lucas. As he spoke he and Gant noted the dried blood down the front of Pete Worley riding toward them. “What happened to Kid Domino?” he asked.
“Scalp graze,” Cross said matter-of-factly.
“Ouch,” said Lucas. He and Gant put their horses forward again as Cross sidled up to them. After they met Bard and Worley, all five of them rode on as if nothing had ever happened to scatter them all over the desert hill country.
“What’s next for us, Max?” Lucas asked, not wasting any time. The four of them gazed ahead as Cross lagged his horse back a few yards to check their back trail.
“Another one of Siedell’s rail spurs,” Bard said without looking at the graying gunman. “Only this time we get paid for our trouble. Any objections?”
“No, I’m just asking,” said Lucas. “But I’ve got to say, my poke is getting light. I need to fill it before it flies away—before all those señoras calientes along the border forget my name.”
“Those hot ladies won’t forget you, Dewey,” Worley put in, riding beside him. “You’ve got too much invested in them. They might build a statue of you.”
“It’ll be different next time, Dewey,” said Bard. “I’ve put a fresh dog in the ring.”
Lucas gave Gant a knowing look, then turned to Bard.
“Is that dog’s name Bo Anson?” he asked. “Because if it is, that’s all the barking you heard a while ago.”
Bard gave him a surprised look.
“Suppose it is?” he said, trying not to look caught off guard.
“Yep, that’s what I thought,” said Lucas. “Ol’ Bo just shot the colonel’s right-hand man and some other fool down there because they wanted to chase Parker Fish into the rock valley.” He gestured toward the rugged valley land below them. “Then he shot his pal Carlson, balooie! Left them all lying where they fell.”
“You don’t say . . . ?” said Bard. He kept his horse moving forward.
“I do say indeed,” said Lucas with the trace of a grin through his gray beard stubble. “If Bo Anson is your fresh dog in the ring, I just hope you’ve got a powerful leash on him. That’s one dog that needs lots of room to prowl.”
Max Bard shook his head.
“Anybody ever tell you that you talk too much, Dewey?” he said, riding on at a walk.
“Oh yes, all the time,” Lucas said. “Usually when they know I’m right and don’t want to admit it.”
Behind them, having found their back trail to be clear, Cross rode forward at an easy clip and fell in beside Worley and Bard. He eased his horse down to a walk and gave Bard a slight nod. And they rode on.
Part 2
Chapter 9
Colonel Cooper Hinler and Bo Anson stood over the scattered bone-picked remains of Duke Patterson, Thurman Bain and Quinton Carlson. A few yards away the colonel’s mounted detectives sat wrapped in their riding dusters, watching with sour expressions. A week of exposure to the desert heat and wildlife had taken a drastic toll on the three scattered corpses. A dead black buzzard whose fate was indiscernible lay dust-covered near Patterson’s chewed-upon head. A feathered wing stirred on a hot breeze.
“No decent man deserves this,” the colonel said, clenching his fists at his sides. He looked all around at layer upon layer of paw prints and buzzard tracks left in the darkened sand surrounding the bodies. “These scurvy desert beggars—” He kicked at a pile of dried coyote droppings.
Anson eyed him, finding it curious that a man would vent such anger at ignorant creatures of the wild.
“These critters got to eat too,” he said in a mild tone. “Take it easy, Colonel.”
Take it easy, did he say?
The colonel just scowled at him, not liking the man’s coolness, his apparent indifference to the colonel’s authority, at anything and everything around him. But he reined in his temper and kept it in check, knowing Bo Anson’s reputation as a gunman and paid assassin. Besides, with Duke Patterson dead, who did he really have here that could step in and fill his boots? He eyed Anson up and down, noting the scoped rifle over his shoulder, the holstered Colt on his right hip, the second Colt hanging up under his left arm in a shoulder rig.
“You’re right, Bo,” the colonel said. “
I realize that you yourself have lost a friend here.” He gestured a nod toward the loose pile of blood-darkened rags and bones that had been Quinton Carlson.
“Not just a friend, Colonel,” said Anson, calmly chewing a fresh wad of tobacco. “My very best friend.” He spat a stream, nodded and said, “Don’t even wonder what I’m going to do when I get my scope set on Bard or any of his freebooters.”
The colonel nodded.
“I’m going to be depending on you a lot, Bo,” the colonel said, using the same tone and manner that he found worked well on men like Duke Patterson and the rest of his detectives.
“That’s good to hear, Colonel,” said Anson. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but the last thing Duke said before he died was for me to promise him I’d stay after Max Bard and his gang and see they get what’s coming to them.”
“On the contrary, Bo,” said the colonel, “I’m glad you told me. It helps me see clearly what kind of man you are, that Duke would say such a thing. You see, speaking bluntly, Duke wasn’t too keen on me hiring you. The fact that your merit impressed him before he died speaks well for you.”
“I’m honored, Colonel,” Anson said in a tone that was hard to describe as sincere. “Not to disparage the man’s memory, but speaking bluntly,” he added, “had Duke listened to me, he and the other two would most likely be alive today.”
The colonel just looked at him.
“It’s true, Colonel,” said Anson. He spat a stream. “I said we needed to go right on after Parker Fish into the rock valley, but Duke wouldn’t hear of it. He finally agreed for me to ride on out and see if I could flush him out. I was on his trail when I heard the ambush and hurried back.” He shook his head as if to free himself of some bloody death scene. “It was terrible,” he continued. “I got here just as Duke was breathing his last. That’s when he made me promise.” He breathed deep and added in a determined tone, “I’ll keep that promise as God’s my witness.”
“So you shall, Bo,” the colonel said. He patted Anson on his broad shoulder. “I want you to lead these men for me. Don’t stop until the Bard Gang is dead.” He flagged the detectives forward, then asked Anson, “Do you know some good men like yourself who are looking for gun work? The attack in Gun Hill, and now this, has left me shorthanded.” He motioned at the three bodies on the ground.
“It just happens that I do, Colonel,” said Anson. “In a town right over the hills there, across the border—” He caught himself and stopped and said, “These men have had run-ins with the law. Is that going to cut them out?”
“Not if you vouch for them, Bo,” the colonel said. “This is no church group, and I’m not looking for deacons.”
Bo gave a crooked tobacco-lumpy smile behind his drooping mustache. “In that case, yes, sir, I’ll vouch for them. They’re a tough lot, but it’ll be my job to keep them in line. Deal, eh?” He spat on his palm and held it out to shake hands.
The colonel looked at the brown tobacco-stained palm, but he masked his distaste, spat lightly in his own hand and reached out.
“Yes, deal,” he said. “I say we leave right away, gather these new men and get after Bard.”
But Anson hesitated, considering the matter. “Wouldn’t it be faster, Colonel, if I went after these new men alone, took a spare horse with me? I could ride all night, get them and catch up with you and the detectives across the rock valley.”
The colonel didn’t like his orders overridden, yet upon thinking about it, he saw Anson’s point. It made no sense giving up a set of fresh tracks while all of them rode to bring back the new men.
“Yes, I agree,” the colonel said. “Take a spare horse and get going. I’ll lead the men from here until you catch up to us.”
“Aye-aye, Colonel,” Anson said. “When I bring these new men onto Max Bard’s trail, you’re going to see some changes in how these outlaws are handled. You’ll soon be taking Bard’s head to Curtis Siedell on a stick.”
The colonel gave him a stiff look, not liking the aye-aye response, which he considered flippant at best.
“It’s Mr. Siedell to you, Bo,” he said. Raising a cautioning finger, he said, “Don’t take liberties with your superiors.” He lowered his voice just between the two of them. “Keep this to yourself, Bo. Mr. Siedell is coming to inspect his new rail spurs personally. I expect him in Gun Hill any day. I shan’t have to correct your manners again.”
“No, sir-ree, Colonel,” said Anson. “You certainly shan’t have to.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice and turned toward the horse and the mounted detectives. A faint smile of satisfaction went unnoticed on his face.
* * *
While the lawman and the wounded outlaw lay healing from their fight in Resting, the Ranger met with the lady sheriff of the small badlands mining town. Sheriff Colleen Deluna stood six feet in her sock feet, taller still in her Mexican knee-high riding boots. She wore a gingham dress beneath a brush-scarred denim waist jacket. On her left hip she wore a holstered Colt, butt forward in a cross-draw slim-jim holster. A wide dusty sombrero mantled her clear yet sun-darkened face. Her dark hair hung the length of her back in a single braid that swayed easily when she walked.
Sam watched her as she turned from gazing out the window of her small plank-and-adobe office and walked behind her desk to sit down facing him. Sam realized she had a barred cell in which to billet a prisoner, but he saw on the stone-tiled floor a heavy blacksmith’s anvil with a six-foot shackle and chain attached to it.
The sheriff noticed his gaze. “If carrying an eighty-pound anvil isn’t enough to make a prisoner behave himself, I have the old territory jail wagon sitting out back,” she said. “Even rowdy prisoners settle right down when they see it.” She smiled. “Your prisoner is safe with me.”
“I never doubted it, Sheriff Colleen Deluna,” Sam said. “This one belongs to the Max Bard Gang, and he’s got Colonel Hinler’s detectives out to kill him. I just wanted to make sure I gave you the whole story before I left him here—not leave you with any surprises in store.”
“Obliged for that, Ranger,” said Sheriff Deluna. “I’ve heard you’re a lawman who can be trusted.” She paused and gave a slight shrug, seeing the look on his face. “I’m sorry I can’t say that about all lawmen,” she added. “But I’m just being honest.” She kept a level gaze on him and asked, “What about Sheriff Stone?”
“I trust him,” the Ranger said. “He’s had some problems lately, but I think he’s got things settled.”
“Whiskey problems, is what I’ve heard,” the woman sheriff said bluntly. “I’ve heard he’s had them for a while. Heard he thinks he turns into a bear, a wolf or something . . . ?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said. “He admits he thinks he’s done some shape-shifting—like some of the Plains Indians claim to do.”
“No surprise, but most of their shape-shifting comes out of a whiskey bottle too,” she said. “Some, not all,” she added in a quiet tone. “Were you going to tell me about Stone?”
“Yes,” Sam said. “I was waiting to see if I’d be leaving him here to recuperate first. I didn’t want to say something that didn’t need saying.”
“Then you’re thinking of taking him with you?” said Sheriff Deluna.
“I’m thinking of taking them both with me,” Sam said. Seeing her expression change, he said before she could respond, “I know how bad the colonel’s detectives can be when they don’t get their way. Not to mention what lengths this prisoner, Rudy Bowlinger, will go to—”
“Ask yourself this, Ranger Burrack,” Sheriff Deluna said, cutting him off. “If I were Sheriff Stone sitting here, would you be having these same concerns about leaving your prisoner here with me, or your wounded lawman for that matter?”
The Ranger thought about it for only a second.
“Yes, I would,” he said. “I would still have to weigh what’s best for keeping us all alive, same as you would
, sitting here.”
“All right.” Sheriff Deluna nodded, letting him know she’d resolved the matter. She redirected the conversation as she took a short stack of wanted posters from a drawer and laid them across her desk in front of the Ranger. “Here’s something I think you’ll find interesting—maybe more than a coincidence.”
Sam leafed through the posters, calling the names printed below each of the pictures.
“Roland Crispe, Mexican Charlie Summez, Hugh Kirchdorf, Buford ‘Bo’ Anson, Quinton Carlson, Ape Boyd and Dawg Merril,” he said. He read the attached telegram with the names also handwritten on it: “All reportedly seen in the town of Bexnar, Mexico.” He shook his head a little and looked at two more pictures that had no names below the faces. One of them he recognized as Doyle Hickey, an outlaw with a vicious scar under his left eye. “Bexnar’s right across the border,” he added.
“Yes, just over that line of hills to be exact,” said Colleen Deluna, gesturing a nod toward the distance beyond the front window. “I got the telegram, thought I’d do some desk work and dig up their wanted posters.”
“Quinton Carlson and Bo Anson both rode with Max Bard under other names, back after the war,” Sam said, summoning up the information from memory. “I see what you mean about coincidence, all of them showing up this close at the same time.” He paused, considering the matter. Then he put it aside. “There might be some connection, but I don’t see it yet. Obliged, but for now I’m headed back to Gun Hill. The colonel has to answer for his detectives ambushing us.” He started to slide the posters back across the sheriff’s desk, but she stopped him with an outreached hand.
“You keep them. I can ask for more if I need to,” she said.
Sam took the posters, folded them and stuck them inside the bib of his shirt.
