Colorado Sam

by Jim Woolard

  “He’s running. Stay put, Nathan,” Ira sang out.

  Nathan never remembered exactly what coursed through his mind, whether it was the murder of his parents and his uncle, the attempt to bash in his head at the Payne stable, the wounding of Alana Birdsong, or the threatening of Eldon Payne, maybe he thought of all that at once, but then and there he decided a true Tanner, particularly the last Tanner standing, wouldn’t cower behind the steps of a bathhouse while others in his employ chased down his enemies, not if he was to ever consider himself worthy of the Tanner name.

  He jumped to his feet. The sidewalk directly ahead of him was deserted, which he took to mean his assailant was fleeing eastward between buildings, not northward up Hunt Street. He plunged into the dogtrot separating the bathhouse from the building next door, thumbing bullets from his shell belt. He tripped over loose trash and bumped against the barrel at the bottom of a downspout, but kept his feet. By the time he gained the end of the dogtrot, he’d succeeded in reloading his six-gun.

  He charged into the open, pistol raised and cocked, and bolted northward. He spied the opposing wooden posts in the increasing moonlight. Their significance wasn’t apparent until the wire clothesline caught him at the bottom of the ribs.

  The collision equaled the kick of a mule. His six-gun went flying. His feet swung into the air and he hung on the clothesline by his arms until the weight of his body yanked him loose. He fell flush on his backside. Unarmed and certain he’d broken at least one rib, if not more, he ignored the pain, rolled onto an elbow, and searched for his six-gun.

  He heard running feet and looked that direction, expecting to see Ira, and instead saw Roan Buckman, teeth gleaming in the weak light, his smile that of the cat with a bird trapped beneath its paw. Roan’s arm swept up and Nathan cringed as the eldest Buckman brother thumbed back the hammer of his pistol.

  He felt frantically for his own gun. “Too late, pup, you’re too late,” Roan snarled, centering the barrel of his pistol on Nathan’s forehead.

  Though no sound warned him, Roan Buckman sensed Sam’s presence and turned sideways, shielding his body with his left arm against the onrushing dog. Sam lunged, clamped his jaws on Roan’s forearm, and drove him to the ground. The huge dog growled and whipped his jaws left and right.

  The gunshot and howl of pain came simultaneously. Sam’s entire frame shuddered and he slowly collapsed atop Roan Buckman. The stunned Nathan could only stare, appalled by how quickly and cleverly Roan had dispatched the ferocious hound.

  Roan Buckman shoved Sam aside and pushed to his feet. Cursing himself for not locating his Colt during Sam’s attack, Nathan watched helplessly as Roan drew bead on his forehead again. “Well, the brothers, their wives, the dog, and now the whelp. The Buckman’s hold sway at last.”

  It would mean nothing to him dead, but cringing before the bullet that would end his life, Nathan recognized the smiling Roan Buckman for what he was—the Devil in the flesh.

  A gun roared behind him. The smile vanished from Roan’s Buckman’s handsome face. His eyes dimmed, then his legs failed and he slammed nose first into the ice and snow, his cocked pistol firing harmlessly into the air.

  An astonished Nathan peered over his shoulder. Eldon Payne, hatless and disheveled, stood at the edge of the dogtrot, blunt fingers gripping a smoking dragon pistol. “Sorry it took me so long to come and help. I finally found shells for this old relic in my bottom desk drawer.”

  Nathan crawled to where Sam lay. Blood covered the hound’s shoulders and the nape of his neck. Though it was hopeless, Nathan gently lifted Sam’s massive head and pressed beneath his chin. He detected no heartbeat, and was lowering the massive head to the snow when the dog’s right eye opened a mere slit. He heard the faintest of whines and a thick pink tongue emerged to lick his knuckles.

  Then the huge hound went limp all over.

  Twenty-Six

  Eldon Payne knelt beside Nathan. “The loss of that dog will break Alana’s heart,” he said, passing Nathan’s missing pistol to him.

  Nathan laid Sam’s head on the snow and holstered his Colt. “Yes, and I’m the one who must tell her.” He pushed to his feet. “Thank you for saving my life, Mr. Payne.”

  “You can thank your man Westfall. He spied me running up the street and motioned for me to follow you,” Eldon Payne said. “We best check on the outcome yonder, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Nathan agreed. ”I’ll retrieve Sam later.”

  The shooting on Hunt Street had ceased and curious townsfolk, lanterns yellow as lightning bugs, wandered from building to building, staring at the dead, trying to resurrect what had happened and in what sequence. Wilbur Knight lay where he’d fallen. Nathan remembered Ira saying Jack Allred had been wounded, and since the constable was missing, he assumed Allred was alive and that Ira had moved him, most likely to the hotel, where Doc Ellie could look after him.

  He marched toward the hotel with Eldon Payne, wincing at the pain in his rib cage, but learning much from the random comments of the milling crowd. “Yesiree, that’s Luther Buckman with that bullet hole plumb betwixt his eyes.”

  Further along a voice exclaimed, “Well, counting the one in the gutter, the one on the bakery roof, Luther Buckman, and poor Wilbur—that’s four dead by my count.“

  Lanterns hung from the porch railing of the Imperial House. Blood, both drops and splatters, glistened on the snowy steps of the porch. The moon-faced, overweight policeman guarding the entryway was sixty, if not older. Through the door glass Nathan saw that Doc Ellie, utilizing beds from the guest rooms, had converted the lobby into a makeshift hospital. At the moment she was bent over the bed nearest the door, probing Jack Allred’s chest with a long silver instrument. Olney held a lantern over doctor and patient while Mr. Ming clutched a shallow pan.

  Ira Westfall was perched on the other bed minus his derby, sack coat, and left shirtsleeve, pressing a red stained cloth to his bicep. More blood showed on his right thigh where a long slit had been cut in his pants leg.

  “Doc Langston doesn’t want anybody interrupting her,” said the rotund policeman blocking the entryway.

  “Patrolman, my ribs may be broken,” said Nathan. “I have need of the doctor, too.”

  The policeman squinted at Nathan. “You young Tanner?” Nathan nodded. “Big fellow done all the killing said I was to let you through,” the policeman said, waving Nathan inside. “He didn’t say any such thing about you, Mr. Payne.”

  The merchant took no offense. “Nathan, if you have no further need of me, my daughter will be worried nigh onto death.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Payne, and thanks again for downing Roan Buckman.”

  “Shooting that turd was a pleasure,” Eldon Payne declared as he descended the porch steps.

  The hotel lobby smelled of blood, disinfectant, and damp cloth. A metallic ping confirmed the successful removal of the bullet from Jack Allred’s chest. Ellie Langston paused to stretch her back and spied Nathan. “You hurt, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Maybe a broken rib or two.”

  “Thank goodness. I’ve enough to deal with right now. Wait with Mr. Westfall while I finish closing the constable’s wound.”

  Not even his thick walrus moustache could hide Ira Westfall’s welcoming smile. “Well, lad, we’re alive and a lot of people aren’t. Have a seat and tell me what happened in that dogtrot.”

  When Nathan informed Ira that Eldon Payne had shot and killed Roan Buckman, the ex-copper’s smile returned. “We’ve accounted for everyone involved in the ambush and Cal Buckman wasn’t with his brothers this evening. Maybe he hasn’t been a partner to his brothers in all this.”

  “What you mean?” a puzzled Nathan asked.

  “Allred told me Cal and Roan seldom agreed on anything. He feels Cal buried the hatchet where you Tanners are concerned and concentrated on building his grocery business. If you think about it, a small town lawyer like Roan couldn’t buy Payne Merchandise without Cal’s backing. So, without Cal’s help he’
d be forced to extort money from Eldon Payne to buy out your aunt. If that scheme failed, his last resort was to murder you and your aunt, and then wrest the store from Eldon.”

  “Did Roan really believe he could kill all of us tonight?”

  “No, probably not,” Ira responded. ”But he was counting on ridding himself of the last of the Tanners.”

  “Do you think he would’ve gone ahead with his ambush if he’d known Hobie was in jail at Creede?”

  “Yes, Hobie wouldn’t have lived to see the inside of a courtroom. Then it would have been Eldon Payne’s word against Roan’s, if Eldon wanted to risk his daughter’s life by testifying.”

  “So you’re really saying Roan might have won out if Mr. Payne hadn’t shot him tonight?”

  “Nathan, truly ruthless men willing to sacrifice themselves can thwart the law as easily as not. Often they’re only stopped by a dose of their own medicine.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m ready for you,” Doc Ellie announced in her no-nonsense fashion.

  “What about the constable?” Ira inquired.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood. To be frank, Mr. Westfall, his chances are slim. Now, let’s clean and dress your wounds.”

  Once Ira’s arm and thigh had been treated and bandaged to the doctor’s satisfaction, she poked and squeezed Nathan’s ribs. “You’re badly bruised, but nothing’s broken. The less you move about for a week, the less you’ll hurt.”

  Doc Ellie repacked her black bag. “Before I visit the undertaker’s, I’ll take a peek at your aunt, Mr. Tanner. Mr. Ming, keep the constable warm until I return in the morning.”

  Departing the lobby Ellie Langston couldn’t resist a parting admonition. “Not that you’ll listen, Mr. Westfall, none of you mule-headed jaspers ever do, but a little bed rest wouldn’t harm you either.”

  As soon as she was in the hallway leading to Alana’s room, Nathan, though tired beyond belief, donned his mackinaw and cap.

  Ira frowned. “Where you bound?”

  “I can’t leave Sam out there. The first thing my aunt will ask is what happened to his body.”

  “What do you intend to do with him?”

  “Bury him.”

  “Hell, Nathan, the ground’s frozen hard as stone.”

  “I’ll have a casket made, take him to the ST, and cover him with rocks.”

  “That’s a heap of work for a dead dog,” Ira said.

  “Not really,” Nathan said. “I owe that ugly brute as much as I do Eldon Payne.”

  “Then take Burt with you. He’s probably barn sour from being caged in Ming’s quarters so long. He’ll be upset he missed the excitement.”

  “What about guarding my aunt? We aren’t really certain about Cal Buckman yet.”

  “I’ll hobble back there and take his place.”

  At Nathan’s light knock and soft call, Burt Dawes opened Ming’s door. “Damnation, boy, will somebody tell me what the hell’s happened? Fish talk more than that Chinaman.”

  “I’ll tell you everything on the way. Grab your coat and pistol and follow me.”

  “Did you ask Ira?”

  “Yes, he’ll be responsible for my aunt while we’re gone.”

  “Where we headed?”

  “To see about burying a friend of mine.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Nathan made two stops in the lobby. First, Olney provided directions to Crane Undertaking, Coffins, and Hearse Rental on Fifth Street. Then he asked Mr. Ming for his purse. As he anticipated, his purse was strung on a leather thong circling the Chinaman’s neck. On the way to the lobby door he lifted a blanket from a pile next to the constable’s bed.

  They walked south on Hunt Street to Sweeney’s Bath House, entered the dogtrot, and passed through. Somebody, a group of townsmen by the numerous tracks in the snow, had dragged off Roan Buckman’s body. Sam, the wind toying with the hair on his shoulder and tail, appeared a black mound in the moonlight. Delighted the hound’s body hadn’t been disturbed, Nathan shook out the hotel blanket.

  “What’re we doing with him, lad?” asked Burt Dawes.

  “We’ll pack him to Crane’s and have them measure him for a coffin.”

  Burt Dawes was incredulous. “Have you gone crazy? They build coffins for people, not dogs.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Nathan shot back. “He hadn’t jumped Roan Buckman, I’d be laying where he is. Help me roll him onto the blanket.”

  Burt offering no further protest, they wrapped the huge hound in the blanket, knotted the ends, and carried him between them, both of them facing forward with Burt in the rear. Wary of clotheslines and other backyard obstacles, they retraced their steps, and once clear of the dogtrot, walked north to Fifth Street.

  Crane Undertaking, Coffins, and Hearse Rental was three buildings east of Buckman Brothers Groceries and Drugs. Nathan was too tired and huffing too hard to worry where Cal Buckman might be at the moment.

  The Buckman grocery was dark, but the opposite was true farther down the street. There, morbid onlookers filled the sidewalk, noses pressed against Crane Undertaking’s brightly lit windows.

  No one noticed the approach of Nathan and Burt until an onlooker turned and spat into the street. “Get ready for another dead one, Harvey,” their discoverer yelled.

  Those on the porch opened a narrow path and stared at the blanketed bundle borne by the new arrivals. “This keeps up Harvey will be rich before morning,” quipped a member of the crowd.

  The contents of the undertaker’s public room explained the lingering, gawking crowd. Laying in a row in the middle of the room were Patrolman Wilbur Knight and the two bearded, wool-coated, unknown shooters who had sided with the Buckmans.

  Nathan and Burt lowered their burden to the floor, and Burt Dawes hollered above the buzz of the onlookers. “Hey, Harvey! We need to talk with you.”

  It took a minute. Then a man they assumed to be the proprietor emerged. He was slightly built and dressed in black except for his white apron. The few strands of hair still growing on his head were plastered to his skull with hair tonic. He smelled of embalming fluid and scented soap.

  “For your information I’m Mr. Crane, not Harvey,” the slightly built man said haughtily as he eyed the blanketed bundle resting between Nathan and Burt. “Now, what is it you want?”

  “I need a coffin built,” Nathan said.

  Mr. Harvey Crane again eyed the blanketed bundle. “May I ask who we’re burying, and who will be paying for my services?”

  “His name’s Sam. I’m Nathan Tanner, and I’ll be the one paying you.”

  “Then stretch your Sam out by the others. He’ll have to wait his turn,” Harvey Crane said. “I’ve Cal Buckman’s two brothers to embalm first.”

  “Sam won’t need embalming, or burying by you, just a coffin. And if you don’t mind, Mr. Crane, I’d prefer we put him somewhere out of sight until you have his coffin ready.”

  Harvey Crane snorted. “I’m an undertaker, Mr. Tanner, and I don’t store bodies or provide coffins for those not availing themselves of my services. Saul Reid, the carpenter on Fourth Street, will gladly do as you wish.”

  Nathan felt his patience slipping. He leaned and opened the blanket covering Sam. Harvey Crane’s jaw dropped, but the undertaker regained his composure just as quickly. “I’ve never been so insulted. I don’t touch dead animals under any circumstances, Mr. Tanner. Please remove that dog from my property immediately.”

  Nathan took a deep breath, and thrust a hand inside his mackinaw. The undertaker, fearing he was reaching for a weapon, stepped backward, prepared to flee for his life.

  The clink of coins gave Harvey Crane pause, and his hesitation was rewarded, for Nathan proceeded to hold forth not one, but three double eagle gold pieces. The undertaker stared, weighing principle versus monetary reward. It proved a short debate. “Mr. Tanner, the dog must be of utmost importance to you. I’ll be delighted to store the remains and provide a suitable coffin. It may, however, not be ready u
ntil tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That will be fine. I’d like him wrapped in canvas, if that’s possible.”

  With his profit assured, the undertaker became as condescending as if Sam were human. “That will be no problem, Mr. Tanner,” he said, sweeping the coins from Nathan’s palm. “I assure you, your animal will be properly cared for while he’s in my possession.”

  Nathan’s stern gaze made Harvey Crane blink. “I better hear nothing to the contrary,” he warned, pulling the blanket over Sam.

  Their departure was accompanied by much muttering from the onlookers, those closest to the door having repeated everything said for the benefit of the others in the crowd. It seemed many were dumbfounded that a huge, ugly dog could be held in such esteem that his owner would pay the cost of two funerals complete with embalmment and interment at the local cemetery for a simple coffin.

  The street running west to Buckman Brothers was empty. Nathan plodded beside Burt, too exhausted to think of anything but the bed that awaited him at the Imperial House. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with Cal Buckman, the money missing from Payne Merchandise, the hostility of Laura Payne, and the question of who would oversee the ST while his aunt recovered. There was also the question of how long Devlin Kellerman and his fellow lawyers, more familiar with the courtroom than the operation of riverfront warehouses, could continue to successfully manage the Tanner Supply Company.

  Burt Dawes was no more alert than Nathan, and the oily slide of metal parts over metal parts, the ratcheting noise produced when a shell was levered into the breech of a repeating rifle surprised and shocked the both of them. They halted in the middle of the moonlit street, mackinaws buttoned, hands stuffed in coat pockets, fully aware they were at the complete mercy of whoever had drawn down upon them.

  “Don’t get excited, either of you,” said a flat, calm voice from the porch of Buckman Brothers. “It’s Cal Buckman. I want to parley. I’ll shoot either of you if you so much as scratch. Walk over here to the hitch rack real slow.”