by Lee Pierce
“I’ve been cogitatin’ on that. I think if he was gonna try for the gold, he would’ve shot me when he ambushed those Mexicano outlaws back yonder. He’s a strange one, but in his own way, I think he’s loyal.”
“Speaking of Black Tom, he should be back now with that midwife, Mrs. Wheeler.”
While the two men were talking, Abby had awakened again. She lay there taking in the conversation and letting her senses ease into service. Her head still ached, but the pain was bearable. She tried to speak, but her mouth felt full of cotton. She closed her eyes and rolled her tongue around until enough saliva loosened up her vocal chords. Pushing the pain to a remote part of her mind, she opened her mouth. “How about a drink of water, boys?”
“Abby’s awake,” Pharaoh said, rushing to her side.
Silverjack grabbed a glass and filled it from a pitcher sitting beside the coffee pot. Reaching Abby’s bedside, he handed the glass to Pharaoh, who poured a trickle through Abby’s dry lips.
“How do you feel, Abby?” Pharaoh asked as he gave her some more water.
“Like I got kicked in the head. What happened?”
Pharaoh explained what had transpired. Before he was finished, Tom showed up with Mrs. Wheeler in tow. Assured by the midwife that Abby would be okay, Pharaoh joined Tom and Silverjack on the sidewalk.
“Did you get the gold hidden in a safe place, Jack?”
“Yep, only Tom and me know where it’s hidden.”
“You best help keep us alive, marshal,” said Tom. “It would be a shame if that gold went lost again, right after we found it.”
Pharaoh scowled at both men. Tom stared back at him. Silverjack turned his head. “We ain’t gonna get the bad guys standin’ here talkin’ about no gold,” he said. “Let’s get this fandango over with.”
Pharaoh nodded, and all three men started for their horses. Pharaoh swung into the saddle. He looked back into the doctor’s office, trying to catch a glimpse of Abby. He was unsuccessful. “All right, boys,” he said, “y’all better be loaded for bear. Check your weapons. We don’t know what to expect when we get to Burdock’s ranch. Just let me do the talking.”
“What are you gonna say, Pharaoh?”
“I’ll know when we get there, Jack. Let’s ride.”
They turned their horses into the street and galloped out of town in the direction of Buck Burdock’s Slash B ranch.
The Slash B lay ten miles north of Lucasville. The trail there was rocky, and the terrain was dotted with large stands of giant yuccas and lesser groups of prickly pear and ocotillo cactus. The three riders picked their way among hills and arroyos that covered the arid landscape. Mid-afternoon was upon them when they reined in their horses on a small hillock overlooking the ranch headquarters.
“From what I’ve been told,” said Silverjack, “this spread covers a whole lot of southern Arizona.”
Pharaoh removed his bandanna and tried to wipe some of the trail grime off his face. “I expect we’ve been on Slash B property for some time now.”
Tom stood in his stirrups and looked around He settled back into his saddle with a puzzled look on his face. “Something’s bothering me. It’s awful dry around here, and we haven’t seen any cows. A big ranch with no livestock—that don’t make no sense.”
“I can answer that,” said Pharaoh. “While Ollie Dunsmore and I were riding back to Lucasville, I grilled him about Burdock’s operation. He said they never did have much stock here. What they had was sold off over a month ago. Burdock let most of his men go right after the bank robbery. The ones he kept were more gunmen than cowboys.”
“Any idea how many men are down there, Pharaoh?” “Ollie told me Burdock had six gunhands on the payroll. I killed one in town, so there’s probably five, maybe more.”
“Good,” said Black Tom. “That means we can shoot anybody on sight.”
“No, it means we have to be careful that we don’t get shot on sight.” Pharaoh cut his eyes toward the black bounty hunter. “Burdock is the only one we want. We’re going to try and take him out of there without any bloodshed.”
“Here y’all go again,” said Silverjack, “jawin’ when we should be workin’. How are we gonna play this, Pharaoh?” Pharaoh stretched his neck, looking around. “See those rocks about fifty yards to the right of the house? Tom, you set up behind those with your Winchester ready.”
“Why am I always the one to hide in the rocks?” Tom said, frowning.
“Because we’re marshals,” said Silverjack. “It’s our job. Besides you could hit a jackrabbit’s tail feathers at a dead run with that Winchester ’73 of yours.”
“Tom,” said Pharaoh, “you should be able to see the front and back of the house. I don’t intend to go inside, but we may have to, so I want you covering both ends.”
“We,” said Silverjack, “means I’m goin’ with you. All right, let’s go.”
Tom held his horse back as the other two picked their way down the hill. The ranch house was a rambling, one-story adobe structure. Besides the rocks where Tom was headed, little else but scrub cactus and creosote lay within a hundred yards of the house. A small barn and pole corral stood behind the house.
Silverjack and Pharaoh counted six horses in the corral. Whether more were in the barn, they couldn’t tell. As they approached the house, two men stepped outside and spread out six feet apart. Both were heeled and carried the look of death. The two marshals walked their horses to within a few feet of the men.
“What do you want?” said the shorter of the two men. His tobacco-stained handlebar moustache drooped below his lantern jaw. He wore two pistols butt-forward, with another stuffed in his belt.
“We’re here to see Buck Burdock,” said Pharaoh. “We’re deputy territorial marshals.”
“Howdy, Silverjack”, said the other man standing in front of the house. He was built like a grizzly bear and almost as big. A wiry, black beard dotted with patches of gray seemed to sprout from his face like a noxious weed. A filthy bandanna crossed his face, covering his left eye. His clothes were no cleaner than the bandanna. A shiny scarlet sash wrapped around his considerable girth. An enormous Bowie knife rested behind the sash, along with two .36 Navy pistols. A short-barreled, twelve gauge shotgun almost disappeared in his paw-like hands.
Silverjack leaned forward and squinted his eyes. “I’ll be damned—Hunk Threadgill. I thought I killed you in Nacogdoches.”
Chapter 14
Hunk Threadgill lifted the filthy bandanna covering his left eye to reveal a puckered empty eye socket. “Yuh damn near did kill me, Jack. Besides losin’ the eye, I got a bunch of places all over me where you stuck your pig sticker. You just missed my gizzard.”
“Well, Hunk, I’m glad you lived through our tussle.” Silverjack ran a finger down his scar. “My face still gives me some trouble now and then.”
Hunk grinned. “That’s good to know, Jack.”
Pharaoh fidgeted in the saddle. “We need to see Buck Burdock right now.”
“He ain’t here,” said Handlebar.
Hunk turned to the little man. “Buford, don’t be lyin’ to Silverjack here. He’ll put your candle out before you can spit your cud. Burdock’s in the back of the house, Jack. There’s two hardcases with him. They’re playin’ moon. The old man sent us out here to kill y’all.” He turned the shotgun toward the marshals.
Silverjack’s hand dropped to his six-gun, but he made no move to draw. “Burdock’s a lyin’ son-of-a-bitch, Hunk. You gonna stand with him?”
“When I hire on for a job, Jack, I generally stay with the brand.”
“That’s admirable of you, Hunk, but this feller ain’t worth the horse flop on your boots. Besides killin’ a bunch of innocent people, his men raped two women. You don’t belong with that trash.”
“Aw, hell, Jack, I didn’t know. That trumps all deals with me.” Hunk shifted t
he shotgun, pointing it at Buford. “Buford, I reckon we need to take a little walk. Go on and head for those rocks out yonder where Black Tom’s pointing that Winchester at us.”
Buford jerked his head toward the rocks. Then back to Hunk’s shotgun. Without saying a word, he started shuffling off the porch away from the house.
“I saw y’all when you topped the rise, Jack,” said Hunk. My one eye’s better’n most folk’s two. After y’all finish the dance, me and Buford will help you pick up the pieces.” He stepped from the porch and followed the smaller man.
Pharaoh looked at Silverjack, who rolled his eyes and grinned. Pharaoh nodded and stepped out of the saddle. Silverjack followed suit.
“Jack, give me a minute to sneak around back. Then you kick in the front door and holler your ass off. We’ll trap these boys between us.” Pharaoh ducked low and started creeping around the side of the house.
Silverjack gave Pharaoh enough time to get in place and stepped onto the porch. He pulled his .44. Then he reached down and slipped his hideout gun from his left boot. Sucking in a deep breath, he raised his boot and drove it into the door. The cheap pine door busted in two big pieces, splinters and small chunks of wood careening in every direction. “Give it up, Burdock!” yelled Jack. “Territorial marshals got you surrounded. You ain’t got a chance.”
Flattening himself on the porch, Silverjack just missed being riddled by the fusillade of lead spitting from the house. He covered his face against the chunks of wood and adobe that showered him.
At the back of the house, Pharaoh hollered. “Drop your guns, Burdock! Surrender and you’ll get a fair trial!”
Scrambling to his feet, Silverjack snuck a peek around the door jam. The gunfire rained toward the back of the house. He cocked both pistols and stepped inside. A bullet screamed in front of him, tearing his hat off. Both pistols came up firing, and a loud groan echoed from behind a half-closed door. Silverjack poured more lead into the door. The bullet-riddled panel swung open, and a body pitched forward. Silverjack kneeled and reloaded his pistols.
Pharaoh snapped off a series of shots into the back of the house. His six-gun clicked on an empty chamber, and he dropped to one knee behind a rock-walled well to reload. Before he could get a shell in the chamber, a man came running out of the house, firing at his position. Pharaoh ducked his head and rolled around the well. He managed to cram one bullet into his six-gun before the charging man burst upon him. A fiery chunk of lead tore into the meaty part of his right arm. He border shifted his six-gun to his left hand. When the wild-firing gunman loomed over Pharaoh, the marshal fired his one bullet into the man’s chest. Pharaoh tied his bandanna around his arm and reloaded. Readying himself to fire again, he realized the gunfire had ceased. “Burdock, this is your last chance. Give up, or face the consequences.”
“Okay, marshal, you’ve got me. I’m done. All my men are dead. I’ll come out with my hands up.”
“No, stay where you are. Throw out your weapons, and lie down on the floor.”
A .44 Smith and Wesson and a .45 Colt flew from the house and bounced in the dirt.
“That’s all I have, marshal.”
“Jack, are you all right?”
“Yeah, looks like I might get out of this alive.”
“Good. Get Burdock, and bring him out the back way. And be careful.”
Silverjack eased into the room where Buck Burdock lay. The rancher cringed on the floor, his arms outstretched in front of him. “Get up real slow, Burdock. My pardner wants to take you in alive, but I’d just as soon shoot you and get it over with.”
Burdock placed his hands under him and pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. He stood with his back to Silverjack. He started for the back door and staggered to one side. “Marshal, I’m sick,” he murmured. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
The rancher weaved like he was about to fall. Silverjack started to step back and give the stricken man some room. His boot heel caught on the curled edge of a rug, and he stumbled and looked down. As he regained his balance, he looked up in time to see a blur whistling toward his head. He ducked, but something caught him on top of his head, and he dropped to the floor.
Burdock squeezed the piece of firewood that he had clobbered Silverjack with, watching the marshal crawl around dazed on the floor. When Silverjack tried to stand up, the rancher picked up both of his pistols.
“Now you get up, marshal. You’re sure not too careful for a lawdog. That suits me fine.
You just gave me a chance to get out of here with my hide. I said get up!”
Silverjack tried to shake the cobwebs away with little success. He managed to reach his feet, but he was in no condition to fight Burdock. The rancher jabbed him in the ribs with his own .44, and Silverjack staggered out the back door. Burdock stuck to him like a shadow.
“I got your pardner, marshal.” Burdock’s voice exuded confidence. “You try to stop me, and I’ll blow him to little bitty pieces. Drop your iron and get on your feet.”
“Aw, Jack,” Pharaoh said, laying his pistol on the ground and standing up. “Burdock, you won’t get away with this. We’ll hunt you down wherever you go.”
“Hard for dead men to hunt anybody down, marshal. This one’s clumsy.” Burdock again jabbed Jack in the ribs with the .44, eliciting a groan. “And you’re so stupid, you actually dropped your gun when I told you to. I reckon they don’t make lawdogs like they used to.”
Buck Burdock reared back his head and let loose an evil laugh. A Winchester cracked, and the rancher flopped over on his side. A thumb-sized hole dribbled blood just in front of his ear.
Chapter 15
Pharaoh said, “Well, Lieutenant Cardigan, that’s about it.” He eyed the shave tail lieutenant, who had ridden down from Fort Apache with a detachment of men to temporarily take over the running of Lucasville. “With Buck Burdock and the rest of his conspirators dead, except for Abe Daggett—whose confession tied up all the loose ends—we’re done here. This affidavit I just signed turns the temporary running of Lucasville over to the Army.” Pharaoh stood up and offered his hand to the lieutenant.
Lt. Cardigan shook his hand. “Thank you, Marshal Smith. You can be sure the United States Cavalry will do their best to help the people of Lucasville rebuild their town. Now, about the reward, are you sure you want it handled the way you said?”
“Absolutely,” said Pharaoh. “Also, I would appreciate it if someone kept a close eye on Abby Boyett. She’s been through a lot these last few weeks.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Cardigan. “I will handle it personally.”
“Excellent, lieutenant. I thought you might.”
The lieutenant’s cheeks turned pink, but he said nothing.
“Now,” said Pharaoh, “with our job here done, we’d better be riding back to Gila Bend. Good-bye, lieutenant.” Lieutenant Cardigan saluted, and Pharaoh smiled and stepped outside. Silverjack and Black Tom were saddled and waiting. Pharaoh patted Texican on the neck and mounted.
“What about the reward?” asked Black Tom.
“Your share will be wired to Gila Bend in ten days to two weeks,” said Pharaoh.
“Outstanding,” said Tom. “It’s been a pleasure working with you boys. If you ever make it to San Francisco, look me up. The drinks are on me. Adios.” He spurred his horse and took off at a gallop.
“Reward,” said Silverjack. “I never knew how sweet that word could be. Let’s see, $5,000 split up three ways means my share comes to—over $1,600. That’s right, ain’t it?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s about a third of five thousand, all right,” said Pharaoh, looking down at his saddle horn.
“You know,” said Silverjack, “I reckon we should have given some to Miss Boyett to help put the town back together. That would have been the thing to do.”
“I did give her some, Jack.”
“Rea
lly.” Silverjack fingered his scar. “That’s good, Pharaoh. I’m not a greedy man. How much did you give her?
“All of it.”
“All of it!” Silverjack’s mouth dropped open. “You mean all of your share, right?”
“I mean all of it, Jack—your share, too.”
“Pharaoh Smith, what right do you have giving away my money? I put my life on the line for that dough.”
“No, Jack, you put your life on the line for fifty bucks a month, and besides, it was the right thing to do.”
“The hell it was. Pharaoh Smith, you sorry, no-good—”
Pharaoh kneed Texican, and the big horse took off. “See you in Gila Bend, Jack!” Pharaoh hollered as he rode away.
Silverjack gouged Bess with his heels, and they took off at a hard gallop after Pharaoh. “When I catch you, you dadgum do-gooder, I’m gonna tear off your—”
The rest of Silverjack’s words disappeared into the wind.
-The End-
Armstrong’s War
Chapter 1
The crack of a pistol shot shattered the morning silence. Jim Butler jerked his mount to a halt, his hand dropping to his six-gun. He was high atop a rocky ridge that overlooked a long, sandy arroyo. The shot had come from below. Dismounting, he hunkered down and trotted toward the edge of the ridge. A few feet from the rim, he dropped to his belly and crawled the rest of the way. Peering over the precipice, he frowned at what he saw.
Four cowboys with pistols drawn sat horseback on the edge of the arroyo. Three of the riders were men from Jim’s past. Below the men, kneeling in the dirt, were four Mexicans and a half-butchered longhorn steer. Another Mexican lay on his back; blood oozed from a gunshot wound on his side. Of the four riders, the youngest one with the blond hair was bellowing like he was in charge.
“I told you my daddy was making a big mistake letting them Mexes start farming on our property.”
