Vengeance Moon

by Charles G. West

While P. D. and her sons returned to pass the night in their hotel rooms, Matt made his way up into the mountains to find a suitable place to make camp. Having no money to waste on hotels or dining rooms, he was content to bed his horse and himself down by a tiny stream at the bottom of a narrow ravine. His chosen campsite was more than a couple of miles from the busy town. It seemed that every shovelful of dirt in Alder Gulch had been turned over in the relentless search for gold, with claims and abandoned claims rendering the ravine uninhabitable for a man of the mountains.

  The ravine offered some protection from a cold wind that had freshened at sundown, and looking up at the slate gray sky, he wondered if he might see snow when he awoke in the morning. With that in mind, he gathered plenty of dead branches for a fire and unrolled the bearskin robe he carried behind his saddle. He couldn’t help thinking about his old partner then. Zeb would have smelled snow. When morning came, he would search the town for the three men who had come to kill him. Thoughts of the slender blond girl, whose faint smile and innocent eyes formed a picture that often visited his mind before falling asleep, now came to ease him into the night.

  * * *

  More than ninety miles to the east, as the hawk flies, the inspiration for Matt’s vision lay awake watching the soft flames that patiently consumed the fir branches in her fire. It had been days since Broken Hand had brought Matt’s message that he had gone after the men who had killed Zeb and Singing Woman. The people of Broken Hand’s village had been kind, and eager to help her, but she felt helpless and alone without Matt. With her cabin burned to the ground, she had no choice but to accept the Crows’ hospitality, and the use of Singing Woman’s tipi.

  Each day since he was gone, she remained close to the tipi, watching the river for sign of a lone rider on a paint pony. And each day passed with no sign. The nights were the worst. Sleepless until exhaustion overcame her, her mind was filled with the dread that he might never return, leaving her with no notion if he were living or dead. There was nothing left to her but to wait out the long, lonely days and the fitful nights, praying that tomorrow she would see him fording the river, returning to her.

  Chapter 16

  Malcolm Early paused while a bull train of sixteen horses, pulling three wagons, rolled past, churning up the muddy main street of Virginia City. A former freighter himself, Malcolm touched a finger to his hat. The freighter returned the greeting with a nod of his head. Folks in Virginia City said that Malcolm was properly named, seeing as how he was one of the early settlers in the gulch. A burly man, now in his middle years, Early had been instrumental in the establishment of a vigilante posse that had hung more than a few road agents and murderers in the wild young years of Alder Gulch and its sprawling town, Virginia City. He was still the man to consult when storm clouds gathered to threaten the peace of the town.

  The bull train having passed, Early crossed the narrow street, taking pains to avoid the puddles that looked to be more than ankle deep. Reaching the walkway on the other side, he paused to stomp some of the mud from his boots before entering the marshal’s office.

  Deputy Marshal Alvin Tate looked up from his desk when the door opened. “Mornin’, Malcolm,” he said. “‘Preciate you comin’ by.” He got up and extended his hand. “Still snowin’ outside?”

  “Alvin,” Early acknowledged, shaking the marshal’s hand. “Yeah, a little,” he said, answering Tate’s question. “It ain’t gonna amount to much, just make more mud.” Brushing the salutations aside, he got to the point of his visit. “Barney Fletcher said you were in the Best Chance lookin’ for me.”

  “Yeah, I thought I might catch you at breakfast, but you hadn’t come in yet. I probably just missed you.”

  “I reckon.” Early shrugged. “I had some things to take care of before breakfast. What’s on your mind?” he asked, but he had a suspicion that he already knew. Tate confirmed it.

  “I need to talk to you about some trouble that might be just waitin’ to happen, and I thought it best to head it off before it gets started.” He paused to make sure he had Early’s attention. “There’s a dangerous feller come into town yesterday, and he’s lookin’ for trouble.”

  “I heard you had a little set-to with some stranger at the Bale of Hay,” Early said, “but what’s that got to do with me?” He refrained from commenting on reports he had heard that the marshal had effectively been backed down by the buckskin-clad stranger. “If he was causing trouble, why didn’t you just arrest him?”

  “Now, see, that’s just it,” Tate came back, eager to defend his lack of action. “He ain’t really done nothin’ yet. I couldn’t hardly throw him in jail for doin’ nothin’.”

  Early shook his head, obviously at a loss. “Don’t sound to me like you got any problem if he ain’t done nothin’. Even if he does, he’s just one man. Hell, arrest him.”

  “Well, now, see, there’s more to it than that. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to you about it.” He puffed a little as he added, “Hell, one man, I’da just throwed his ass in jail. But, like I said, he hadn’t broke no laws, so I didn’t arrest him. The thing that I wanted to talk to you about is this. I got word that this feller is lookin’ for three other fellers he followed here, and he’s got blood in his eye for certain. And John Sawyer said he rented a couple of rooms to three strangers this week, and one of ’em’s got a gunshot wound in the shoulder. I’m thinkin’ we might have us a shoot-out on our hands if we don’t head it off.” He cocked his head sideways in a gesture of concern. “Some innocent folks could get hurt.”

  Early was beginning to see the reason for Tate wanting to see him. “And you’re thinkin’ it might be wise to call the posse out to make sure these desperadoes take their mischief elsewhere.”

  “It might be in the best interest of the town,” Tate said. Though both men referred to the loosely organized mob that still looked toward Malcolm Early as their leader as the posse, the gang of volunteers was in fact the remnant of the vigilantes who enforced the peace in the years before Tate was hired as deputy marshal.

  “Well, maybe that’s somethin’ to think about, all right,” Early replied, stroking his chin whiskers thoughtfully. It had been over two years since he had led a band of vigilantes that strung up five road agents from the ceiling beam of Clyde Newton’s new barn. Their activity was generally frowned upon now that Virginia City was the territorial capital and there was an official marshal in place, but Early had to admit he missed the excitement of running the hounds.

  “Of course, I could handle this by myself,” Tate insisted. “I just thought it might be a good thing to show these gunmen that come to roost in Virginia City that the whole town is gonna stand up to ’em.”

  Early stood there, slowly nodding his head up and down while he thought it over. “All right,” he decided. “I’ll get the word out to some of the boys, and we’ll go visit these no-accounts.”

  * * *

  It was a little past noon when Malcolm Early returned to Tate’s office with seven volunteers, all eager to participate in what might prove to be a wild party. “This was all I could get hold of on short notice,” Early reported, “but they, by God, oughta be plenty for this job.”

  Tate looked over the assembly of vigilantes, all armed with pistols, or shotguns, or both. Though there were only seven, he agreed with Early. They were all good men, tempered hard and willing. Jack Porter and his brother-in-law, Will Peterson, both tough as new leather, were the first Early called in. Billy Hyde, a blacksmith, and Johnny Duncan, a freighter, had ridden with Early when the five road agents were strung up a couple of years back. The other three were prospectors who had done pretty well for themselves. Partners in a large claim, they were naturally resentful of all strangers in the gulch. By anyone’s assessment, it was a hard bunch that had been assembled.

  As he had done with Malcolm Early, the marshal laid out the potential problem as he saw it, summing up with the statement, “We got one wild son of a bitch lookin’ for three other fellers to s
ettle up for who knows what, and thinkin’ he can do it in our town.”

  “Three fellers you say?” This from Billy Hyde. “That’s mighty interesting. I was talkin’ to Bill Dolen, the bartender over at the Lucky Strike, and he was tellin’ me about three fellers in there last night. He said they was in the Lucky Strike a couple of weeks ago, too—only there was four of ’em then. He said they looked like the kind that would cut a man’s throat just to hear him whistle. Another feller come in; he’d been gunshot. Bill said the other four took up with him, and they left the saloon together. Anyway, now they’re back in town. Ain’t but three of ’em now, and one of them’s been shot. Now, I’m thinkin’ they just might be the three gents this other feller has come lookin’ for.”

  There was a fair amount of nodding and conversation rumbling among the posse following Billy Hyde’s comments. Early looked at the marshal and nodded slowly.

  “There, now, you see,” Marshal Tate said. “Where there’s stink, there’s shit. I think it’d be a good idea to go over and have a talk with these three fellers; see what they’re up to.”

  “We might as well just run ’em outta town right now,” Early said, “before they start somethin’ on our streets.”

  Everyone started shuffling toward the door, intent upon taking care of business, when they were halted by Jack Porter, who suddenly stopped in the doorway. “Look what’s ridin’ down the middle of the street, pretty as you please,” he said. “I bet that’s your wild mountain man right there, Marshal.”

  Tate edged past the others to stand beside Porter in the doorway. “That’s him all right,” he stated. “Told me straight out that he was gonna do what he came to do, and nobody better try to stop him.” As soon as he said it, he realized that it again reflected upon his reputation as the town’s lawman. He quickly tried to retract. “I mean, of course he didn’t out and out say that, but that’s what he was thinkin’ all right.”

  “Looks to me like it’s plain enough he’s out to spill blood. Whaddaya say we lock his ass up till we run them other fellers outta town?” He looked toward Tate, waiting for an answer.

  “That’s exactly what I was about to say,” Tate replied.

  * * *

  With no better plan in mind, Matt guided his horse along the main street of Virginia City with the intention of visiting every saloon he could find. He figured that, sooner or later, he was sure to run into the men he sought. Men like that just naturally gravitated to the saloons. Walking the paint slowly past the stable, he nodded briefly to Clyde Newton. The owner of the stable returned the nod, and stood watching the buckskin-clad rider as he made his way leisurely up the street.

  Just as he was about to pass the marshal’s office, the marshal stepped out the door. Signaling Matt with his hand, he walked out in the street to meet him. “I need to have a word with you,” Tate called out while striding purposely toward him.

  Mildly puzzled, Matt pulled the paint pony to a stop. “Is that a fact?”

  “Yessir,” Tate replied and caught the paint’s bridle in his hand. With his other hand, he leveled his pistol at Matt. “Now, I’m gonna ask you real nice to step down off that horse, and keep your hands on that saddle horn.”

  Matt hadn’t figured the marshal to possess backbone enough to confront him. Still, he had no intention of obeying Tate’s demand. Remaining seated in the saddle, he responded, “You’ve got no call to pull a gun on me, Marshal. I haven’t broke any laws.”

  Tate cocked the pistol. “I warned you we didn’t want your kind around here, and I gave you a chance to leave. Now, by God, I reckon you’ll have a longer stay with us. Now, get down from there.”

  Matt remained motionless for a few moments, staring at the .44 Colt Army model revolver aimed at his stomach. Then he glanced at the grim face of the marshal as Tate waited for his response. He considered his options. They were few, but he was not ready to surrender his weapons and go meekly to jail. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a couple of heavily armed men moving up from behind him to take a stand on his right side. Seconds later, two more appeared on his left. He glanced back at the marshal’s face. Now the grim expression had changed to a sly smile, and Matt understood at once that he had been trapped.

  “I ain’t gonna tell you again,” Tate growled. “If you don’t get down off that horse, I’ll shoot you off.”

  Seeing no alternative, Matt shrugged and slowly threw a leg over and stepped down. He was immediately relieved of his sidearm by Malcolm Early, and with the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun prodding him in the back, he was herded into the jail. Turning the key in the cell door, Tate stepped back and fixed Matt with a smug expression. “I reckon you found out what we think of your kind in this town,” he said.

  “My kind?” Matt snapped. “What the hell is my kind?”

  Malcolm Early, standing beside Tate, answered for the marshal. “Your kind is the no-good, trouble-makin’ riffraff that we got rid of around here a few years back, and the kind we ain’t gonna tolerate no more.” He turned to Tate then. “Now let’s go get them other three skunks.”

  The last remark caught Matt’s attention immediately. The other three had to be referring to the same three he had followed here. He stood helpless while the gang of vigilantes filed out of the marshal’s office, his frustration feeding on the hopelessness of the situation. When the door closed behind the posse, he at once began testing the bars and the cell door for any sign of weakness, only to be further frustrated. Finally, he accepted the fact that he was going to remain there until somebody unlocked the door.

  * * *

  P. D. Wildmoon pushed her chair back from the table and stretched her arms out to the side. Her shoulder was still stiff and sore, but she was satisfied that it would no longer be a hindrance to her. Content, she watched her two sons continue to devour the remains of their supper. Like starving coyotes, she thought as Arlo snatched the last biscuit from the plate before Bo could claim it. It had been an unsuccessful day. They had cautiously canvassed the entire town, but found no trace of Slaughter. P. D. was beginning to question whether Arlo had actually seen Slaughter in the first place. It was a good-sized town, but it wasn’t so big that a man like that could go completely unnoticed. She had finally decided to abandon the search, figuring that, if Slaughter actually had been in Virginia City, he had moved on. With no better plan, she intended to head out again in the morning to Nevada City, hoping that maybe they might pick up his trail.

  She focused her gaze upon Arlo for a few moments, as her oversized son slurped noisily at his coffee, then consumed the final biscuit in two bites. She couldn’t help but smile, and was about to comment on his ability to put away great quantities of food when activity at the door of the hotel dining room caught her attention.

  A group of men, nine altogether, filed in the door. Stern-faced and businesslike, they scanned the tables, apparently searching for something or someone. P. D. was immediately alert, her instincts signaling trouble. She noticed then that one of the men wore a badge. Very slowly, with little show of movement, she slipped her pistol out of its holster and held it under the table. “Arlo, Bo,” she hissed, “mind yourselves. I think we got company.” Something in their mother’s tone told them to get ready for trouble. They each dropped their forks immediately. Arlo followed his mother’s gaze toward the group of men at the door. He cocked an eye at Bo, and Bo nodded in reply before pushing his chair back to give himself room. “Just hold still,” P. D. cautioned.

  Looking over the dining room patrons, it took only a moment to spot the three at the back corner table. Tate nodded to Early and the burly vigilante grinned in reply. With an aside to Jack Porter, he said, “You boys spread out and be ready in case they put up a fight.” He then followed the marshal to the table.

  “Howdy, boys,” Tate said, stopping right before the table. “What are you boys doin’ in my town?”

  P. D. met the marshal’s stare with one of her own. After locking eyes with the lawman for a long
moment, she answered. “Minding our own business,” she said sarcastically, her gaze shifting to take in the vigilantes lined up across the front of the room.

  Tate merely grunted at this, and looked to his left to make sure Early was backing him. Emboldened by his superiority in numbers, he couldn’t help but swagger a bit. “Well, mister, I’m the law around here, and my business is to run scum like you outta town. Now, on your feet!” he ordered.

  Unmoved, P. D. remained seated. “I’ll tell you what, Marshal, if you just turn around and walk your ass outta here, and take your men with you—why, I’ll forget about the whole thing. If you knew me, you’d know that nobody runs P. D. Wildmoon outta town.”

  “Why you cocky son of a bitch . . .” Malcolm Early blurted, unable to remain a spectator. “Get up from there or, by God, we’ll drag your ass outta here.” He grabbed the edge of the table, preparing to jerk it out of the way.

  “Hold steady,” P. D. cautioned Bo and Arlo, who were visibly uncomfortable. Back to Early, she warned, “I wouldn’t if I was you.”

  There followed just a short moment of silence that filled the entire dining room as the other patrons realized what was going on. Cutting the silence was a light tapping of metal on wood as P. D. fixed the two confronting her with a benign expression approaching smugness. At that moment, Tate realized that the tapping was that of a gun barrel against the bottom of the table. Suddenly blanching, he immediately took a step backward, but Early failed to understand the warning. He pulled the table over sideways, turning it upside down.

  The crash of the table with dishes hitting the floor shattered the silence that had descended upon the room. It was followed a split second later by the crack of P. D.’s pistol—two shots in quick succession. The first doubled Early over with a slug in his gut. The second caught Tate in the upper thigh, causing him to fall over another table, which had not yet been cleared of dirty dishes. Pandemonium followed. Terrified diners scrambled to escape the scene, knocking chairs and tables over in a desperate stampede toward the front door. “Shotgun!” P. D. bellowed at Bo, but Bo was one step ahead of the warning. His pistol already in hand from the moment the table was over-turned, he cut down on Billy Hyde, who was the first of the vigilantes to bring a weapon to bear. Bo’s shot smashed Billy dead center in his chest, dropping the blacksmith to the floor. His finger tightened on the trigger of the shotgun as he fell, firing a blast that almost decapitated an unfortunate woman who was not fast enough to have reached the door.