Stryker's Law (A Matt Stryker Western #1)

by Chuck Tyrell

  “King Rennick’s here, Tom.”

  “No shit. Cahill’s getting serious about things, then.”

  “He is. Talked to Rennick. He’s got a certain kind of pride. Don’t think he’ll try to shoot me blind.”

  “When did he get here?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “It’ll be tomorrow or the next day, then. Any idea where?”

  “He’s been looking the town over,” Stryker said. “Don’t know what’s in his mind, but I can’t see any place for an open gunfight other than the GW&SF ketch pens.”

  “Figure he’ll call you out?”

  “I reckon.”

  Hall chewed at his lower lip. “He by himself?”

  “With Kid McQueen and Ace Tyler,” Stryker said.

  “They’ll come all spread out. That Tyler’s a good man with a scattergun.”

  “We’ll just have to meet them.”

  Tom smiled. “You and Dan will. I’ll just take my time and watch your back.”

  Dan Brady stopped by Clark’s Kitchen for a cup or two of coffee as he made the rounds of Main, Corduroy, Ash and Oak Streets. With the nightlife all across the ford in Bogtown, Ponderosa was quiet. When he finished the coffee, he’d take a turn through Bogtown. Old Glory was the only big drinkery there, but Charlie’s Place, a joint with a plank on two barrels for a bar and no chairs, and Knute’s Bar, which dipped drinks directly from a barrel of whiskey at five cents a shot, gave those with fewer coins in their jeans somewhere to take the edge off their sorrows.

  Dan was only halfway through the first cup of coffee when Prudence Comstock came in.

  “May I sit with you, Deputy?” she asked.

  Dan nearly swallowed his tongue. He’d almost give his right arm to have Prudence Comstock sit with him. His neck flared crimson, but he managed to say, “Why, sure,” without his voice trembling too much.

  “Coffee for me, too, please,” Prudence said as Becky poked her head in from the kitchen.

  “Be right there,” she said.

  “Quiet tonight, Deputy?”

  She’s just making conversation, Dan thought. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He gulped at his coffee.

  “If only it were quiet every night,” she said, her voice sounding wistful.

  “Marshal Stryker will soon have this town tamed,” Dan said.

  “By hitting drunken men in the head with his pistol?”

  “Miss Comstock, I don’t want to argue with you. The marshal does his job as he sees is right. I second him.”

  “I apologize, Deputy. I really came in to ask you a question. Would you deign to answer a question for me?”

  Dan didn’t know what deign meant, so he took another gulp of coffee. “I suppose I could answer,” he said, careful to keep his tone of voice flat and noncommittal.

  “Fine. Did you see three men ride in yesterday?”

  “I did.”

  “Who is King? Who are they?”

  “Killers.”

  Prudence searched Dan’s face. “Honestly? Killers?”

  “The leader is King Rennick. The youngster is Kid McQueen. The man with the shotgun is Ace Tyler. You’re in the newspaper business. You’ve heard about King Rennick and the Nueces War. Well, since then, Rennick, the Kid, or Ace have shot it out in Telluride, Alder Gulch, Gila Bend, and I don’t know how many other places. So far, the other people have all ended up dead. King’s bunch stays alive and seems to be pretty flush.

  “Why would they come to Ponderosa?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Has someone hired them? Who? To kill whom?”

  Dan’s voice grew stronger and took on an edge. “Only one man stands to gain something if another dies – Nate Cahill wants Matt Stryker dead. I can’t prove it, but I’d say Cahill hired Rennick’s bunch to shoot it out with Matt Stryker . . . and me.”

  Prudence’s eyes widened. “You?”

  Dan nodded. “I wear a badge. I back the marshal. They kill him, they gotta kill me, too.”

  Prudence Comstock ate supper at Clark’s Kitchen and lingered over her meal of boiled beef, potatoes, and carrots. Autumn was apple season for the few fruit trees in Ponderosa, and Jimmie created the best deep dish apple pie Prudence had ever tasted. She dribbled rich cream over the steaming desert, then had Becky refill her cup of coffee. She spent the better part of an hour savoring the pie, and left the restaurant just before its 9 o’clock closing hour.

  “’Night, Becky,” she called, leaving fifty cents for the meal. She shrugged into a woolen overcoat and tied a scarf over her hair and ears. She closed the door behind her and turned right toward the office of the Examiner. As she passed the alleyway between the Comstock Hotel and Clark’s Kitchen, hard hands grasped her arm and jerked her into the gloom of the alley. Before she could more than squeak in surprise, a thick hand covered her mouth and rough fingers pinched her nose. She struggled to breathe. Don’t kill me. I don’t want to die. Don’t kill me, she screamed, but could not make a sound. Her heart raced and she struggled harder to breathe.

  “Shut up, bitch, and you won’t get hurt,” a voice growled in her ear. Frantically she nodded her head, her eyes wide and showing white all around. The hand loosened slightly and she was able to take a breath. She sucked a huge lungful of air, and the hand clamped down again. “Don’t you even think of making noise. Your life’s not worth shit,” the voice growled again. “Give me her scarf,” he said to someone else. She realized two pairs of hands held her. Who? She strained to see her assailants but the alleyway was too dark. Hands forced a wad of cloth into her mouth, then tied the gag tight behind her neck. “Blindfold,” the voice said, and her eyes were covered with something and tied tightly in place. Oh, God. Please. I don’t want to die. Her thoughts tumbled one over the other.

  The men – she thought of her assailants as men – pulled her farther into the alleyway. Then she smelled horses, the scent of sweat and droppings and warm horsehide.

  “We’re going to put you on a horse. You can ride astride or belly over the saddle, it makes no never mind to me. What’ll it be? Over the saddle? Astride?”

  Prudence nodded vigorously at the last suggestion.

  “Here’s the stirrup.” Rough hands took her hand and brought it into contact with the stirrup. “Use your left foot.” She nodded again and lifted her foot to the stirrup. Hands guided her grip to the saddle horn, and pushed on her butt as she mounted the horse.

  “You going to sit, or do I have to tie you to the saddle?” A man looped what felt like a piggin string around her wrists and tied her hands to the saddle horn. “Sit easy. Don’t try anything.”

  She heard two others mount, then the horses started off at a walk. Prudence had no way of knowing where the men were taking her or what they would do with her when they got where they were going. Her mind sifted through the possibilities. She didn’t like any of them.

  Prudence felt like they rode for hours. In reality it was probably not more than half an hour. The little cavalcade stopped, and Prudence heard a gate complain as it opened. Hands undid the piggin string and pulled her from the saddle.

  The men dragged her along and finally shoved her through a door. She stumbled across the uneven dirt floor and fell against some bulging sacks. The place smelled of oat chaff and oiled leather. Tack room? Granary? She shivered in the cold.

  “Don’t want you hurting yourself,” the gruff voice said. Hands guided her to a pile of gunnysacks full of grain and seated her on one. She heard the sound of tearing cloth, then someone tied her hands tightly behind her back with a strip of cloth that felt like canvas. The man also tied her feet at the ankles. Prudence could move neither hands nor feet; they were tied securely. Furthermore, the gag in her mouth prevented her from using her teeth to work on the strips that bound her.

  “That should hold her,” the gravelly voice said. “But you stay on guard outside, just in case.”

  Someone threw a wool blanket that smelled of horse over her shoulders. Footsteps went away. T
he door closed. A hasp and lock clicked. Prudence was alone.

  For several moments she tried to pant for breath, but the gag forced her to draw deeply through her nose. The effort helped calm her, and she was finally able to sit quietly and think about her situation. The men had handled her roughly, both with their hands and with their words, but if they were going to kill her, why wait? If they were going to rape her, why wait? Something else was happening. She worked at her hands and feet, but there was no give in the bindings. The cold made her shiver. The gag stretched the edges of her mouth and forced dry and bulky wool against her tongue. She toppled over and lay on the sacks. She rubbed her head against the rough burlap. Her hair slipped upwards, taking the blindfold with it. Now she could open her eyes. Black. Completely black. She scraped the side of her face against the sack, trying to loosen the gag. At first there was no give, but as with the blindfold, the thugs had tied the gag over her hair, and it was slippery enough to allow the gag to move up and down. Half the night, it seemed, she worked at the gag, and finally it fell down around her neck. She gulped for air. It was full of dust from gunnysacks and loose oats, but it tasted delicious to Prudence. Now, if anyone happened by, she could scream for help.

  Chapter Eleven

  Matt Stryker ate breakfast at Clark’s Kitchen shortly after it opened at 6 o’clock. Today was no exception. He had the usual: three eggs sunny side up, a rasher of bacon fried just short of crisp, a mound of fried potatoes almost black with cracked pepper, four slices of well-toasted and buttered sourdough bread, and a large mug of Becky’s coffee, regularly refilled. He took his time eating, greeting the regular customers as they came in, but engaging in no extended conversations. He’d almost finished when King Rennick entered.

  “Good morning, Matthew,” King said. “Looks to be a bright day in the making.”

  “King. Are you about ready to leave town?”

  “One small matter to settle first, Matthew. The one between you and me.”

  Stryker shoveled the last of the potatoes into his mouth. He kept his eyes on Rennick as he chewed. He swallowed and said, “All right, King. It’s hard to see a good man like you die, but as you will.”

  King Rennick smiled. “Thank you, Matthew. We feel it would be fair to all if we left Old Glory at noon. We’ll walk up Corduroy Road toward the ketch pens. Wherever we meet is where the matter will be settled.”

  “Noon, then. I and my deputy will be there.”

  “Fine.”

  “Breakfast? I’ve finished mine, but can always drink another cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you, no. Mr. Cahill has something ready for us in Bogtown.

  “Until noon, then.”

  Rennick smiled again. “That’s right, Matthew, all out in the open come noon.”

  “Patrón?” Ramona stood at Fletcher Comstock’s bedroom door.

  “What is it?”

  “Patrón. Miss Prudence. She did not come home last night. No one has sleeping in her bed.”

  “Prudence is a grown woman,” Comstock answered by reflex. Then he stopped. Prudence didn’t stay out all night. It was not like her. “No message?” he asked.

  “No, Patrón. What shall I do?”

  Comstock forced himself to smile. “Leave it to me, Ramona. I’ll make sure Prudence is all right.”

  “Sí, Patrón.” The housekeeper made no move to leave.

  “Something else, Ramona?”

  “A man, Patrón, I know not who, a man came. He said to give you this.” Ramona held out a white envelope.

  “Why can’t they wait until office hours,” Comstock grumbled. He took the envelope and held it up to the light. It definitely had something inside. He tore off one end and shook the paper out. He unfolded the single sheet and read the message.

  I have your sister. If you want to see her alive, prepare a demand bank draft for $10,000. Put it in an envelope and place it in a copy of the Examiner. Have the housekeeper walk Main Street until someone asks her for the paper.

  Comstock froze. Only one person could do something like this. Nate Cahill. Comstock remembered the night Cahill had come for the marshal’s badge. Clearly he thought Comstock was a businessman, a desk jockey, one who let money do his talking for him. Cahill had a thing or two to learn.

  “No breakfast, Ramona,” Comstock said.

  “Sí, Patrón.”

  Comstock stripped the cravat from his neck and took off the linen shirt. He pulled off his Wellingtons and shucked the dark wool trousers. From the chest of drawers he took a plaid lumberman’s shirt and donned it, followed by a pair of denim Levi’s and a short black leather vest. He selected a pair of lace-up forestry boots and laced his jeans inside them. He shifted his wallet, pocket watch, and loose coins to the pockets of his jeans and vest. The only thing he didn’t change was his four-by-four Stetson.

  As he prepared to leave the house, he stopped at the gun cabinet, where he retrieved a black gun belt with twin walnut-handled .44 Colt Frontier revolvers, model 1873, in black holsters. Comstock slung the gun belt around his waist and buckled it. He settled the unfamiliar weight of the guns on his hips and tilted their handles forward. He checked each pistol and added a sixth cartridge to each. Ready, he strode from the house, down Ash Street, across Corduroy Road and on to Main, where he turned right and walked to the marshal’s office.

  Matt Stryker looked up as Comstock rapped on the doorframe. “Enter who dares,” he said with a smile. “My, you’re loaded for bear. Sorry, but you’ll have to leave the guns here if you’re going to walk around town.”

  Comstock held out the note. “Cahill’s gone too far, Matt.”

  “Looks like it. King Rennick and his boys are here to kill me. Now this. First things first. Rennick’s coming out at noon. Once the fracas with him is over, you can go after Cahill.”

  “Who’s standing up to Rennick and them?”

  “Me, and maybe Brady.” Stryker said nothing of Tom Hall.

  “And Rennick?”

  “I reckon there will be three – him, Kid McQueen, and Ace Tyler. That about evens things up.”

  “I’ll stand with you.”

  “No you won’t. You’ve got the most important business in this town to run. Lots of people depend on you, so you shouldn’t go get yourself shot and killed.”

  “Cahill can’t do this to me.”

  “Cahill won’t be with Rennick. Don’t you worry about standing up to him. It’s Cahill you need to reckon with. Do you hear me?”

  Comstock took a deep breath. “I hear you. The minute Rennick’s out of the way, I’m after Cahill.”

  “So be it.”

  “Rennick’s nowhere in Ponderosa,” Dan said from the doorway. “I’ve been round the whole town. He’s not there.”

  “I saw him at breakfast,” Stryker said.

  “Oh? What did he say?”

  “Him and his boys will walk out from Old Glory at noon. They’re coming up Corduroy towards Ponderosa. They expect me to meet them out there.”

  “And me,” Dan said.

  “It’s my fight. You don’t have to go,” Stryker said.

  Dan tapped his badge with a forefinger. “I’m law in this town. Just like you. I got the right to stand.”

  Stryker looked Dan in the eye. “It’ll get hot.”

  “I been practicing.”

  “It ain’t how fast you get the gun out, it’s whether you hit anything when you pull the trigger.”

  “I been practicing.” “Dan’s jaw set with determination. “They kill you, they gotta kill me, too. That’s the only way, and it’s the right way.”

  At last Stryker smiled, the scars stretching his face out of line. “All right, Dan. It’s your fight, too. Now, let’s get ready. Fletcher, if you’ll excuse us. Oh, and Fletcher, leave your guns here when you go.

  “You take the Greener, Dan. It only gives you two shots, and don’t you pull both triggers at once. Ace Tyler favors a shotgun, too, but his is sawed off. With the Greener, you’ll have more range. />
  “So I get Tyler.”

  “Hit him with one barrel. If that doesn’t do the job, use the other one. Then drop the Greener and use your Colt on whoever is still standing. Once King and his rowdies are down, we move into Old Glory. Cahill’s grabbed Miss Comstock – show him that note, Fletcher – and he figures Fletcher will pay to get her back. Take down anyone of that bunch you see – Cahill, Wynn, Morales, Breed . . . . Everything clear?”

  “Yep. How much time we got?”

  Stryker pulled a watch from his vest pocket. “It’s quarter of eleven right now.”

  “I’ll give the Greener a quick clean-up.”

  “Dan, take the extra Colt. You won’t have time to reload, probably.”

  Dan Brady got the box with gun oil and rags from the cabinet and sat down with the Greener 10-gauge. “I hear you, marshal. You taking the sawed-off?”

  “No. King and the Kid will have pistols. Ace will be the only shotgunner. King’s honorable when it comes to gunfights. He’ll come walking and won’t stop until he or I is down.”

  “I still think I should go,” said Comstock. “Cahill’s got Prudence.”

  “You hold back, Fletcher. King Rennick’s a job for the law. Once we’ve taken care of that problem, you can help find your sister.”

  Dan rammed an oily rag through the barrels of the Greener, then switched to a dry cloth to remove any extra oil. He thumbed two shells into the shotgun and snapped it closed. “Okay,” he said, standing the Greener in the gun cabinet. He drew his Dragoon and ejected the cartridges into his hat.

  “You’re going to a gunfight with that antique?” asked Comstock.

  Dan kept his attention on cleaning the revolver. “Mr. Comstock, sir,” he said, “this here six-gun is old, but I keep good care of it and it sure shoots right where I point it. Yes, sir. I’m taking my Dragoon.” He wiped each cartridge as he replaced them into the Dragoon’s cylinder, then added a sixth one. Replacing the huge gun into its holster, Dan got a .45 Colt Peacemaker from the drawer of the gun cabinet and proceeded to clean it, too. After carefully cleaning and replacing the cartridges, again adding a sixth one, he shoved the Peacemaker behind his belt in the small of his back. “I’m ready, Marshal,” he said.