by Don Bendell
Joshua was certainly puzzled now.
He asked, “When was this?”
Looking at Masterson, the retired dentist said, “You see, Bat, my new friend Strongheart here and I have a very dear mutual friend who lives due west of here by the name of Zachariah Banta. He took me to visit poor Mr. Strongheart in a Denver hospital while he lay motionless for days, the result of a very malevolent disagreement with a rather humongous-sized silvertip grizzly bear possessing the disposition of a knife-wielding prostitute I was unfortunately acquainted with in Durango.”
Strongheart said, “I swear! Zach Banta is friends with everybody. He brought you to see me in the hospital when I was knocked out cold?”
Doc tipped his hat again and coughed, a little blood and spittle landing on his chin. He wiped it quickly with a handkerchief.
A waiter walked up and took Joshua’s order for some more pie and poured more coffee for the two gunfighters.
Strongheart waited for him to walk away and said, “So what brings you two gentlemen to this part of the country?”
“Well, Joshua,” Bat said, “not what, but who. We were hired to come here to help out the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway. You know, they have had a squabble going on with the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad about laying a line through the Royal Gorge here and have been fighting over putting a line over Raton Pass down just across the border.”
The Pinkerton said, “So, who at the railroad actually hired you?”
Doc Holliday said, “Well, suh, we just met with railroad officials, but we were first invited here by a gentleman named V. R. Clinton, who owns quite a spread in the south end of the Wet Mountain Valley and has many properties here and there.”
Strongheart said, “I never met him. What’s he look like?”
Bat said, “That’s just the thing, Strongheart. We never met him. He sent for us, and some slingers met us in Pueblo, put us in a hotel there, and gave us handsome sums of money as a deposit on our services.”
Joshua knew what services he meant. The man bought their guns.
Doc Holliday said, “I did not much care for his ramrod, a large, disagreeable gent named Big Mouth Schwinn. Please, Mr. Strongheart, don’t even ask, suh, how he got the name Big Mouth.”
Joshua chuckled while taking a bite of pie.
Doc went on. “He fancies himself a shootist, but like a typical tin horn, has notches carved on his pistol grips.”
Bat said, “Doc, you want to take that walk while he eats his pie?”
Doc Holliday nodded, and both men stood.
Bat said, “If you’ll excuse us a few minutes. We will let you enjoy your pie and coffee, and we had planned to just walk down here by the river and take a look at the mouth of the Royal Gorge.”
“Sure,” Joshua said.
As he watched the two walk out along the riverbank, he thought about how fortuitous it was that their paths had crossed. Both were very famous at the time and would, in later years, became legends of the Old West. Both were very colorful characters, as was Joshua Strongheart, but each in his own way.
Actually, the railroad wanted to hire Bat Masterson to assemble a gang, and he immediately mentioned Doc Holliday, so they asked him to hire the former dentist. Besides Doc, Bat had already contacted Dave Rudabaugh, Ben Thompson, and Mysterious Dave Mather, as well as about seventy others, for his gang. This, however, was all based on the initial contact from V. R. Clinton, who said he was representing the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway.
Bat was a lawman and gunfighter from Kansas who worked with and was a good friend of Wyatt Earp. He was born in Canada on November 26, 1853, but moved with his family south. When he was around twenty years old, Bat and his brother started working as buffalo hide hunters, and Bat also worked as a cavalry scout. After that, he became a lawman in Kansas, where he and Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday became friends. His brother was shot and killed in Kansas and died in Bat’s arms.
So now what would become known as the “Colorado Railroad War,” or the “Royal Gorge Railroad War,” was actually already being fought in small squabbles and skirmishes and in court between the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway and the smaller Denver and Rio Grande company. Actually, in 1878, the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe was competing against the Denver and Rio Grande to put the first line through Raton Pass. Both railroads had lines to Trinidad in southernmost Colorado, and the pass was the only access to continue on to New Mexico. Unlike many of the Rocky Mountain passes, Raton Pass actually barely rose much higher than Trinidad, but the area became very wooded and was teeming with elk, bears, and mule deer. Above and below that area, the terrain was more semiarid, with a lot of small hills covered with sagebrush, some small scrub oaks, and typical vegetation for southern Colorado. Directly to the west, the Sangre de Cristo mountain range, which was twenty miles or so south and west of where Strongheart was, was much closer to Raton Pass, which actually went through the outstretched eastern foothills of the range that extended into New Mexico.
Because of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe hiring Bat Masterson in 1878, and hiring many other shootists, the Denver and Rio Grande was forced to give up the fight over Raton Pass to them. Then, in 1879, a silver strike in Leadville at the headwaters of the mighty Arkansas River, up above ten thousand feet in elevation, renewed the rivalry. Both companies were competing to put their line through the magnificent Royal Gorge. The Denver and Rio Grande hired a large band of gunfighters, too.
First using V. R. Clinton, in March of 1879, the railroad hired Bat Masterson to put together his large group of gunmen. This was when he brought in Doc and the others. Strongheart sipped his coffee and thought about the slender gambler and gunfighter.
When John—Doc’s given name—was a teenager growing up in Georgia, his mother died of consumption, which was actually tuberculosis. His father remarried very shortly after, and Doc’s life was turned upside down. He developed quite a temper. He also was close to his adopted Mexican brother, who came down with tuberculosis, and after a few years, Doc did, too.
He attended the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery, graduating in 1872, and opened his dental practice in Atlanta and had a few shooting scrapes with nobody getting hurt. Doc consulted a number of doctors and was told he had only a short time to live and was strongly encouraged to move out West to a drier climate. In October 1873, Doc Holliday moved to Dallas, Texas, and spent some time there. However, he continued to practice his quick draw and with his knife and still possessed his wicked temper, so he had a few shooting scrapes.
Just a few steps ahead of Texas Rangers, soldiers, and lawmen, he moved to Colorado in 1876 after several stops in Texas and several dead bodies. He lived in Pueblo, Leadville, Georgetown, and Central City, leaving three more bodies in those cities. The fact that he was dying gave him an almost suicidal bent when it came to gunfights. Because of his high intelligence, the doctor was a natural at card games and figuring out betting odds. He was also a very good dresser and, when he was not in shootouts, really conducted himself as a refined Southern gentlemen in his speech and mannerisms. All these factors made Doc Holliday a very colorful character with a rapidly growing reputation in the West as a shootist not to be challenged or trifled with.
The two gunfighters returned to the dining room and rejoined Strongheart, drinking a final cup of black coffee. They walked with him toward the door.
“Beautiful country around here,” Bat said, making small talk.
Joshua replied, “I have some bad memories here, but bought a small spread, mainly because I love the climate and have friends here. We get sunshine almost every day all year long and hardly any snow in the winter—not like the snow up in the mountains around here or north or west.”
Doc said, “Suh, we need to be headin’ back to Pueblo. I assume your business has not picked a side in this railroad skirmish?”
Strongheart said, “Not th
at I know of. Haven’t heard.”
“Well, suh, I certainly hope they do not side with the Denver and Rio Grande. I like you and respect you, Joshua Strongheart, and I certainly do not wish to meet you in a hostile disagreement.”
Bat said, “I agree with Doc, Joshua.”
Joshua grinned, saying, “Shakespeare said, ‘Life every man holds dear; but the brave man holds honor far more precious dear than life.’ I feel the same toward you gentlemen. I consider you both new friends.”
Doc tipped his hat brim, saying, “Yes, suh. He also said, ‘In a false quarrel there is no true valor.’ Let’s hope that none of us have picked the wrong side to fight for.”
Joshua grinned. “I am a Pinkerton. As the old saying goes, ‘I ride for the brand.’ I go where I am directed to go in my job. If we are pitted against each other, please understand I will still consider both of you with a great deal of respect and admiration.”
Bat stuck out his hand, saying, “I think we are all of the same mind-set.”
With that, the three men went their separate ways, each feeling good, yet uneasy about their concluding conversation.
Strongheart checked out and headed south through Lincoln Park toward his small spread south of Cañon City. As he climbed out of the emerald Arkansas River drainage, he started wondering what lay before him with Doc and Bat. Would they indeed fight each other, and if so, who would win?
Before him he could see the lesser peaks surrounding Cañon City, all under ten thousand feet. Well beyond was the giant Sangre de Cristo range like a western wall, which would block many storms without the courage to climb up over the thirteen- and fourteen-thousand-foot barrier. Those blizzards and storms that did make it over the top often would blow out over Cañon City and Florence and fall on the prairie out to the east.
Suddenly, Strongheart’s hat flew sideways as he heard a crack as the first bullet flew past his head, and he immediately heard the thump sound from the muzzle blast, then a loud bang as a second shooter missed him. Both were in the trees, on two small hills surrounding Oak Creek Grade Stage Road, which climbed up over three thousand feet in elevation to the new mining town of Silver Cliff, a full day’s or two days’ ride southwest. He immediately swung down under Eagle’s neck while the big paint bolted toward the trees to his right. Strongheart held on to the saddle with his left calf and wrapped his left arm around the horse’s neck as he fired under the neck into the trees to his left. He heard more host right above him, but he knew the shooter to the right was firing blindly, as he heard bangs instead of that crack-whump sound when a bullet passes right by you. He swung up into the saddle, reloading while reining Eagle with his knees. The paint instinctively knew Joshua was looking for that shooter. They came around a large clump of trees and there was a man, rifle in hand, trying to mount up on a big bay. Eagle slammed into the horse with his chest, sending him rolling sideways downhill on the backside of the small hill. The man hit the ground rolling and jumped up, shaking off the cobwebs.
He was a big man, Strongheart’s height and solid, but his face was ugly and he looked like a giant rat with a narrow pointed nose and a tiny mouth that was pursed. Joshua almost grinned to himself, knowing this had to be Big Mouth Schwinn whom Doc Holliday had told him about, as the man had notches on the six-shooter on his hip. Joshua recognized it as a Colt Russian .44. The bushwhacker’s right hand hovered over the holster as he wondered if he should draw.
Strongheart grinned. “Pull it. Bring that smokewagon out and go to work with it, and let’s see what happens.”
The shooter stood there, not knowing what to do.
Joshua said, “Your name is Schwinn?”
Schwinn said, “Yeah, how did you know?”
Strongheart said, “’Cause I heard they call you Big Mouth Schwinn, and I understand why. You are a curious-looking critter, Mister. Your mouth looks like the narrow end of a small funnel, and your face—well, you look just like a opossum.”
The killer’s face reddened as Strongheart said, “So, before I go after your partner across the stage road, tell me, why did you varmints try to bushwhack me?”
“Yer a damned tin star Pinkerton and yer ridin’ fer the Denver and Rio Grande in the railroad war, ain’t ya?” Schwinn said.
“No,” Strongheart replied. “Got that wrong. I might be tomorrow, but my boss hasn’t given me marching orders yet. Why the notches on your gun? Fancy yourself a shooter?”
“I’ve kilt my share,” the man said.
Joshua could tell from experience the man was working up the courage to draw. Strongheart didn’t say a word, but just spun the pistol backward into his holster and smiled. Big Mouth’s eyes widened suddenly, and Joshua drew with years of practice, seeing the man’s pistol halfway out of his holster when the Pinkerton’s pistol spit flame and a big red spot appeared in the middle of Schwinn’s forehead and his body fell forward, dead and unmoving.
Strongheart now had to find the other bushwhacker quickly. He slowly rode Eagle back up the hill and moved from tree to tree, looking across at the other small piñon-covered hill, trying to spot the shooter. The man was not moving, and Joshua knew he had not taken off. Even though Joshua had been dealing with Big Mouth Schwinn, he had also automatically kept an eye on Eagle’s ears, knowing the horse would warn him if the other bushwhacker tried to get out of the area or tried sneaking up behind him. The man was laying low.
Strongheart pulled his carbine out of the scabbard and cocked it. He aimed at the spot closest to where he thought the other ambusher was shooting from. He squeezed the trigger, and five seconds later the man took off at dead run from behind the hill on a big chestnut. Joshua put his front sight between the man’s blades, then spurred Eagle into action while he stuck his carbine back into the scabbard. The black-and-white half-Arabian, half-saddlebred gelding started overtaking the big chestnut in short order. The killer galloped up Oak Creek Grade Stage Road, smacking his horse’s withers with his long reins. Eagle was thrilled with the chase, and the more they angled uphill, the more ground he gained on the other horse.
When Strongheart was less than twenty feet behind him, the man whirled in his saddle, six-shooter in hand, and Joshua drew and fired. His fast point-and-pray technique worked, and the pistol flew out of the ambusher’s hand as he screamed in pain. He spurred his horse even more, but Eagle was far superior, especially the farther they ran. The other heavily muscled horse was good for gathering cows and short bursts, but not longer distances, especially running uphill, which they had been doing within a half mile of the ambush spot. Arabian horses have larger nostrils, allowing them to take in more oxygen.
Joshua pulled up alongside the other man. He did not want him dead. He wanted to know how Schwinn knew who he was and where to lie in wait, and also why. He was certain that his meeting with Holliday and Masterson was simply coincidence. Nobody had gotten word to the two ambushers that fast. They had been waiting for him.
The horses were now side by side, and a large embankment ran off the west side of the road. Joshua jumped and slammed into the other man. They flew sideways, knocking the wind out of the shooter when he hit the ground and started rolling down the steep embankment. Joshua rolled, pushed with a foot and went into a shoulder roll, and then came up running. The man stood and staggered, and Strongheart slammed into him with a diving tackle. The shooter’s eyes opened in panic, as he could not get his breath at all.
Strongheart jerked him up roughly and yelled, “Jump up and come down with your legs locked.”
The panicked man jumped up in the air and came down on the ground with his knees locked and landed stiffly. The jolt jarred his wind back immediately and the panic feelings went away, but now he was being slapped across his face by a very powerful Joshua Strongheart. He tasted blood in his mouth, and blood spurted out of both nostrils.
His right hand bleeding with a bullet hole through it, he grabbed for his sheath knife w
ith his left hand and desperately stabbed at Joshua. Strongheart sidestepped and the knife thrust went by his waist, and a vicious right fist arced and hit the man in the left cheekbone, shattering it. He hit the ground, and his left eye immediately started swelling shut. He was out.
When he awakened, he sputtered from the canteen water Joshua splashed on his face. The man was stout and wore all black clothes, had a black holster—basically, everything was black.
Strongheart stuck a prerolled cigarette in the man’s mouth and lit it for him. He puffed long and deep, blowing out a blue tendril of smoke, which wafted away on the light mountain breeze.
Joshua said, “What’s your name?”
The man said, “Stones Blackstone.”
“Why were you and Big Mouth Schwinn trying to dry-gulch me?” Joshua asked. “That was Schwinn, wasn’t it?”
Stones said through now-swollen lips, “Yes.”
Joshua said, “Why did you two ambush me?”
Stones puffed thoughtfully and said, “Where is Big Mouth?”
Strongheart replied, “He has a new mouth in the middle of his forehead. I can arrange for you to have one, too, if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”
Blackstone said, “You outdrew Schwinn?”
Strongheart immediately replied, “No, I didn’t. I had the drop on him and tied him up just like you are. He refused to answer my questions, so I shot him in the face.”
Stones’s eyes opened wider than when the wind was knocked out of him, and he started breathing very heavily.
He said, “What do you want to know?”
Joshua said, “I already asked you,” and he cocked his gun.
Stones said, “He takes his orders from the big boss, V. R. Clinton. I ain’t ever met him, but I know he told Big Mouth ta kill ya. Oncest we spotted you was in town, we set up at that spot, knowin’ it was on the way ta yore spread. We been there since you and thet kid come ridin’ inta town. I swear thet’s all I know, sir. I swear it.”
