by Chuck Tyrell
“All right. All right. Coming. Coming. No need to knock my house down.” A small wiry man with close-cropped white hair and a bushy black moustache opened the door. Before Stryker could say a word, the doctor spoke again. “If you’d come to me when those wounds were fresh, I could have kept the scars from disfiguring your face like that. Now, there’s not much I can do.” The doctor started to turn away.
“Not me, Doc. Got a man lung shot in a freight car at the siding. He’s alive, was when I left anyway, can you come?”
“Help me harness my filly to the buckboard.”
In minutes, Doc Heywood and Matt Stryker went back past the Academy at a fast trot. Doc Heywood pulled the filly to a halt at the freight car, but he was too small to get into the car by himself. “Give me a boost, young man,” he said to Stryker. Once in the car, with Stryker at his side, the doctor swiftly undid the crude bandage. Tom Hall twitched but didn’t open his eyes. “You did good, Stryker. Blood clotted on your bandage and stopped up the hole in this man’s chest, but the clot was soft enough for air to escape when he filled his lungs. Good job. Good job. Many times it’s best to leave these wounds to heal themselves, and they will heal if the bleeding stops.”
“What about the bullet?”
“It didn’t carry a lot of pieces of shirt and other debris into the wound so we’ll let it be. Do more damage poking around in there trying to find the bullet and haul it out.”
“You’re the doctor. He’s too good a man to get shot down blind.”
“Let’s get him onto the buckboard.”
Stryker got some slats from the engineer and he and the fireman helped load Tom Hall onto Doc Heywood’s buckboard.
The drive back to Heywood’s castle went at a walk. Hall groaned every time the buckboard struck a stone or dropped into a rut. Doc and Stryker carried Hall into the dispensary at the castle. “We’ll put him on the hard table until I’ve worked on that hole,” Doc said. “I can handle things from here.”
Stryker fished a double eagle from a pocket behind his gun belt. “Here, Doc. I’m not short of money, so do what’s right for Tom. If I owe you more, I’ll be around to settle with you. If he needs an undertaker, I’ll pay for that, too. For a while, though, I’ll be gone. The owlhoots that did this must be apprehended and made to pay.”
“You leave him with me, Marshal. Right now, he’s got better than a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through.”
“My thanks, Doc. I’ll be back.”
Stryker strode from the castle, mounted Saif, and struck for the railroad at a long canter. The engine had a full head of steam when he arrived.
“Run your black up the chute, Marshal, and we’ll make tracks for Ponderosa,” said the engineer. In less than a quarter of an hour, the train sped up the tracks toward the White Mountains.
Dan Brady reined in the team of young geldings in front of Wells Fargo. He’d left Ponderosa as soon as the train pulled out, driving a light buggy with a heavy box on the floorboard, covered with a lap blanket. He’d seen no more than normal traffic on the freight road that ran from Holbrook through Camp Kinishba and on to Fort Apache. Now all he had to do was deliver the box to Wells Fargo, get a receipt, and drive back to Ponderosa.
“’Morning,” Dan said to the teller. “I brought a box here from Mr. Comstock up to Ponderosa.”
“We’ve had a telegraph about your arrival, Mr. Brady. Could you carry the box into the manager’s office, please?” The teller opened the office door so Dan could go through.
“You’ll be Deputy Dan Brady, then,” said the tall balding man behind the desk. “I’m Fenton Bowles, manager here at Wells Fargo in Holbrook.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bowles. Could you count what’s in this box and give me a receipt for it. I’ve got to get back up the mountain.”
“Certainly. James. Count the proceeds in the box, please, and bring a receipt for Deputy Brady.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now. May I offer you a cup of coffee, Deputy?”
“I’d admire one, Mr. Bowles.”
The manager stuck his head out the door. “Run over to Aunt Hattie’s and get a pot of coffee, would you, Madge? Deputy Brady’s been on the road a long time and needs some refreshment. Perhaps there’s some apple pie left as well.”
“I won’t be a moment, sir,” said a matronly voice.
Moments later, a large stately woman with her hair arranged neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck arrived with a coffee pot in one hand and a covered basket in the other. “I’m Madge,” she said. “I watch after Mr. Bowles. I got some of Harriet’s good coffee and a handsome wedge of her famous apple pie.”
Dan was nearly tongue-tied at Madge’s motherly air. “Er. Thank you, ma’am. I admire a good piece of apple pie . . . and good coffee, too. I surely do. Thank you very much, ma’am, I’m sure.”
Madge smiled. “My boy would have been about your age if he hadn’t caught diphtheria when he was a little tyke. I like to do for young men in his stead. You’re very welcome, Deputy, very welcome indeed.”
Before Dan could finish the huge piece of apple pie Madge set before him, James the teller was back with a count of the box’s contents. “Mr. Bowles, the box contains twelve thousand three hundred dollars in double eagle coins and seven thousand seven hundred in bills. The total is an even twenty thousand dollars.”
“My. My. A great deal of money,” said Bowles. “Fletcher Comstock must trust you implicitly, Deputy. Still, I’m somewhat surprised at the amount.”
“Mr. Comstock said he was buying a new buzz saw unit and a whole planer mill,” Dan said.
“He’s more than enough for that, I’d say,” said the manager, “but it’s safe here with Wells Fargo. Tell Mr. Comstock that he’s free to write a draft against his account any time he has the need.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Bowles. Now, much obliged for the coffee and the pie, but I’d best be outta here. Long way back to Ponderosa.” Dan took the receipt for Comstock’s money, bid Madge goodbye, and mounted the buckboard. He drove down River Street to Len Miller’s livery stable where he bought the team a good bait of oats and rubbed them down. The horses were young and firey, and Dan figured they’d trot back up the mountain in good order. He’d rest them every hour or so along the road, but he dearly wanted to be in Ponderosa when things came to a head.
Nate Cahill and his men rode back into Bogtown in the dead of night. He didn’t want people to notice his comings and goings. He didn’t want to show the clouds on his face. He didn’t want to pretend to be in good sorts, but come morning, he’d have to. “Don’t you boys go to drinking tonight,” Cahill said. “And don’t you talk about that train. Give me some time to figure out a way to get our share of that money outta Fletcher Comstock. Just give me some time.”
Cahill didn’t sleep that night, but he dressed carefully in the morning, made sure to splash rose water on his face after shaving off his three-day beard, and pomaded his long curly hair. He inspected his reflection in the barroom mirror. Except for some puffiness about the eyes, he looked suave and debonair as anyone had a right to expect. Today he’d have breakfast at Clark’s Kitchen. See where the chips fell.
“Bring my bay,” he said to no one in particular. Morales left through the back door. Old Glory now had a holding pen with a lean-to out back so horses could be unsaddled and gear could be kept out of the weather. A few minutes later Morales came in the front door. “The bay he is out front, boss,” he said.
Cahill left his Peacemaker hanging on its peg in the office. There were rules against wearing sidearm’s in Ponderosa. He tucked a tiny derringer into a special clip up the loosely cut sleeve of his frock coat. Rules did not mean a man should not prepare to protect himself.
He strode from the saloon, placed his planter’s hat squarely on his head, and mounted the frisky bay. He’d ridden the horse all the way from Oklahoma, and knew his habits. “Come on, Red,” he said. “Act your age.”
Becky Clark looked up from the ta
ble she was cleaning as Cahill entered. “Good morning, Mr. Cahill.” Becky’s face was deadpan.
“And to you, Mrs. Clark. May I eat breakfast here this morning?”
Becky nodded.
Cahill took a table in the corner near the window. He watched the morning traffic move along Main Street. Prudence Comstock passed, probably on her way to the Examiner. A few minutes later, Fletcher Comstock came from the same direction, but turned into Clark’s Kitchen. He scanned the room as he entered. His eyes stopped a moment when he noticed Cahill. With a slight nod in Cahill’s direction, Comstock sat in the middle of the room. Becky came with Cahill’s food. Now, with Comstock watching, Cahill lost much of his appetite. In fact, a stiff shot of Turley’s Mill was what he needed. He broke a sourdough biscuit in two, daubed one end in the yolk of a sunny-side-up egg, and stuffed it into his mouth. The biscuit was almost too big to chew. Cahill took a gulp from his coffee cup. The brew softened the biscuit and he was able to chew and swallow.
Matt Stryker walked into the café and strode to Cahill’s table. “Join you?”
Cahill nodded at the chair opposite.
Stryker pulled it out and sat. He pushed his hat back on his head, baring his ruined face.
“Didn’t figure you’d want to show that face around here, Stryker.”
“You tried your best to put a scare into me, Cahill. I don’t scare worth a damn, and I don’t stay run out of town.”
Cahill’s breakfast sat on the plate, forgotten. His brown-eyed stare met Stryker’s of icy blue.
“I have a little problem,” Stryker said. “Four men with sacks over their heads stopped the GW&SF train to Holbrook three days ago. I couldn’t see any faces, but the leader of that bunch sat his horse a lot like you. I figure they were after a box full of money sent by Fletcher Comstock to Wells Fargo. Thing was, as you know, the money wasn’t on the train. Ordinarily I wouldn’t worry about looking for a gang that stole a bunch of rusty bits of iron, but one of that gang put shots into the freight car hitched on behind the baggage car. He killed a mighty good gray riding horse for no good reason, and a friend of mine is in Doc Heywood’s castle over to Snowflake with a bullet in his lung. I’m telling you, Cahill. If Tom dies, I’m coming after you with both barrels. Even if he lives, you can count your days in Ponderosa on the fingers of your right hand. If I were you, I’d cash in on that saloon and try some part of the country with a more congenial atmosphere.”
Cahill snorted. “I showed you want I think of bounty hunter town tamers. I can do it again. You just step careful, Stryker. You got no shotgunner backing you now.” Cahill drank down his coffee, trying to look nonchalant.
Dan Brady pulled up in a buckboard drawn by tired horses. He tied them to the hitching post and came into Clark’s. His eyes took in Cahill and Stryker, but he walked over to Fletcher Comstock. He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Twenty grand in the Wells Fargo safe, Mr. Comstock. Here’s the receipt. Mr. Bowles says you can write drafts whenever you have a need.”
“Thank you, deputy.” Comstock took the receipt, unfolded it, nodded at its contents, then smiled at Nate Cahill. He looked back at Dan. “Safe and sound, Dan. Much obliged.”
Dan nodded. “I’ll be at the office,” he said to Stryker as he turned to go.
“Take care of those colts,” Stryker said.
“I will. See you later.”
“So,” Stryker said to Cahill. “All that money you thought to take sits down to Holbrook warming Wells Fargo’s big old safe. Tom Stark’s not a lawman to mess with, Cahill. If I were you, I’d try some other part of the country. I suggest you do.”
Cahill stood and put on his hat. “I’ll be in Ponderosa long enough to plant flowers on your grave, Stryker. You think you can throw me out? Go ahead and try.” He turned on his heel and left. A moment later the sound of hooves said Cahill was returning to Bogtown.
Nate Cahill downed his third shot of Turley’s Mill. The whiskey burned all the way down. “Damn. Damn. Double damn.” He poured another shot.
“What you damning about, big brother?” Wynn shoved his glass over, intimating that Cahill should share the whiskey.
Cahill ignored him. “Damn.” He tossed the shot. “Our money’s all down to Holbrook in the safe at Wells Fargo. Damn.”
Wynn waggled his glass at the whiskey bottle. Cahill continued to ignore the hint.
“This is my town,” Cahill said. “I want my share of that money.”
“Get Comstock to write you a draft,” Wynn said, his eyes still on the Turley’s Mill.
“That’s an idea,” Cahill said. “If I put a gun to his head, maybe he’d do that.”
“Seems to put some store in that feisty little sister of his,” Wynn said. “I’d like a share of her while you’re at it. I’ll bet she’d yowl real good.”
“Wynn, if you were smart, you’d be scary. You don’t hurt the girl, you just grab her and tell her brother to give us ten grand if he wants her to stay alive.”
Chapter Eight
Stryker buffaloed three drunken cowboys in as many days. Without Tom Hall watching his back, he felt nervous about letting things go. If he moved quickly on minor offenses like drunk and disorderly, maybe people would think twice about doing something more blatant or more vicious.
Prudence Comstock obviously didn’t approve of Stryker’s methods. Every issue of the Examiner carried an editorial about the “dictatorial lawmen who have invaded our peaceful town.”
Fletcher Comstock was completely happy with Matt Stryker. Not only did he keep the rowdy element in check, he also figured out a neat ruse that put Comstock’s earnings from the sawmill safely into Wells Fargo’s possession. And ever since Stryker had told Nate Cahill off in Clark’s Kitchen, things in Bogtown were quiet as the moments of silence that come just before the whole powder keg blows sky high. Maybe things weren’t so comfortable after all. Comstock climbed the stairs to the big room at the top of the hotel where the Ponderosa Club met every Thursday.
Although the club had twenty-three members, all prominent citizens, the steering committee consisted of five: Fletcher Comstock, Borg Larsen, Herbert Gardner, Melvin “Slim” Welsh, and Xavier Gaspé. The other four were waiting when Comstock arrived.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
Gardner waved a hand. “We’ve got things to discuss, Fletcher. Best we get to it.”
Comstock stalled. He opened the door in the belly of the Franklin stove and stoked it with a chunk of pine for quick flame and one of oak for long-lasting coals. The coffee pot on top of the stove breathed fragrant steam. Comstock got a porcelain cup from the sideboard and poured it full of coffee. Only then did he take a seat. “Okay. What’s the big problem?” he asked.
“Matt Stryker’s getting out of hand, Fletcher. Ever since he came back without Tom Hall, he’s been coming down hard.” Borg Larsen gulped at his coffee.
“Yeah. Too hard,” Gardner echoed. “Do we really need a town tamer, Fletcher? Nate Cahill has stayed in Bogtown. Tag Riddle’s hightailed it out of town. Morales plays it close to the chest. No one can read the Breed. So the only one in that gang who’s a problem is Wynn Cahill.”
A knock came at the door. “Becky here. I brought a big plate of bear sign.”
“Enter and be damned,” called Slim Welsh, with a laugh. “You know there’s not a man in here but what wouldn’t kill for a bite of good bear sign, and Jimmie makes the best.”
Becky opened the door and the smell of freshly cooked doughnuts invaded the room, making serious conversation impossible for the moment.
Members of the steering committee of the Ponderosa Ponderosa Club sat back as Becky Clark placed the heaping plate of doughnuts in the center of the table. There wasn’t a dry mouth in the house.
“How are you doing for coffee?” she asked.
“’Bout half a pot, I’d say.” Herbert Gardner reached for a glazed doughnut. “We’ll need more before this meeting’s over with.”
“I’ll bring
more up.”
“Much obliged, Becky. Your coffee and Jimmie’s doughnuts are the only things that make this company bearable,” said Welsh. The group laughed.
“Be back in a moment,” Becky said. She poured everyone’s cup full before leaving with the coffee pot.
“Don’t know what this town would do without Jimmie and Becky. They keep us all alive. Now. About Matt Stryker.” Gardner took the subject back to the matter at hand.
“Seems to me,” Comstock said, “that the bunch of you were crying for salvation not more than a month ago. You screamed and moaned when you thought Nate Cahill had run Stryker out of town. And you crowed when he came back. Looks to me as though you all are a very hard bunch to please. As for me, I vote for letting Matt Stryker do his job. You leave him be and Nate Cahill and his ilk will find that the air here in Ponderosa doesn’t agree with their kind at all. I say leave him be.”
“Fletcher talks sense,” said Gaspé. “In Canada, we have such men as Stryker. Those Mounted Policemen make it possible for such as us to remain in business. My vote is with Fletcher . . . Also, I think Matthew Stryker is the very honest man. That to me is important.”
“So two of us want to leave Stryker be,” said Comstock. “Herb, are you voting Stryker out?”
“The way he’s been lately, I have to say yes. I want him out.”
“Me, too,” Larsen said. “I have to vote with Herb.”
“So it’s me and Xavier for and Herb and Borg against. Leaves you to break the tie, Slim. What do you say?”
Slim Welsh reached for another doughnut and took a big bite. With the sweet pastry in his mouth, he swigged at his coffee. “Hmmmm,” he said, and took another bite.
“Coffee,” Becky called with a rap at the door.
“It’s open,” Comstock said.
Becky filled all the cups again and sat the coffee pot on the Franklin. “Those doughnuts are not disappearing very fast,” she said. “Did I bring too many? I could always take some back. Cowboys are always asking for bear sign.”
