Gunsmoke and Gold

by William W. Johnstone

  “But Saturday is our most profitable day,” Dale protested.

  “I don’t give a damn what it is,” Charlie told them. “If them doors ain’t padlocked in fifteen minutes, I’ll put you both in jail for disobeyin’ the orders of a lawman. Now do it!”

  Matt and Sam and Dewey had been busy painting huge signs and the signs were up on both ends of town. ALL GUNS MUST BE CHECKED AT THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE. ANYONE FAILING TO DO THIS WILL BE FINED FIFTY DOLLARS AND SPEND THREE DAYS IN JAIL. ALL SALOONS ARE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  Charlie, Matt, Sam, and Dewey all carried sawed-off double-barreled shotguns. They stood highly visible on the boardwalks of the main street.

  A group of hands from the Lightning spread were the first into town, coming in at mid-afternoon. A hand called Kid who fancied himself a real tough gunslick ripped the sign down and rode up to Charlie. He tossed the sign at Charlie’s feet. It plopped on the dirt in front of the boardwalk.

  “I’d like to see you take my guns, you old son-of-a-bitch!” Kid said.

  “All right,” Charlie said. “I’ll just do that.” He lifted the express gun and gave the kid both barrels in the chest. The double charge of buckshot blew the Kid slap out of the saddle and spread him all over the street.

  “Jesus God!” Clint whispered.

  Dewey pointed his greener at Clint. “Check your guns at the office,” the young man told him. “And do it right now.”

  “You got it,” Clint said. “Man, don’t pull them triggers. We’ll git us some tobacco and notions and we’re gone from here.”

  “Somebody get a shovel and scrape up that mouthy one,” Charlie said. He looked at Clint, who had unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to Sam. “You wanna tote him back to the ranch for plantin’ there?”

  “Tote him back how?” the Lightning hand said. “In a tub?”

  Seventeen

  The hands from the Lightning spread must have ridden straight to the Circle V and warned the hands that to ride into Dale meant big trouble, for not one single puncher from either the Lightning or the Circle V came into town the rest of that day.

  A few hands from the Box H came in, read the sign, and checked their guns without any hesitation. They had a few drinks in the cantina, and ate supper, and everybody behaved. The boardwalks were quiet and the town nearly asleep by ten o’clock.

  At midnight, Sam came awake, wide-eyed and worried. He looked around the shack; Matt was snoring softly. He threw a boot at him, hitting him in the butt, and Matt rolled off the narrow bunk and landed on his belly on the floor.

  “Grace in motion,” Sam said, swinging his legs out of bed. “That’s you.”

  Matt crawled to his knees. “I’m gonna stomp your . . .”

  “You’ll do no such thing and you know it. We settled all that by the Crazy Woman a year ago. Get dressed. Something is very, very wrong.”

  “You just got lucky that day,” Bodine said, pulling on his jeans and sticking his feet into his boots. “I’d been pinned down there for hours and was exhausted by the time you got there.” He buttoned his shirt.

  “Bah! I couldn’t whip you and you couldn’t whip me. That’s the way it is, so fighting each other is foolish.” He grinned. “Old Fat Bear really beat our backs and butts good with that stick, didn’t he?”

  Bodine laughed. “He sure did. Hurt me a lot worse than those puny punches you were throwing.” He buckled on his gunbelt and found his hat.

  “Wagh! You couldn’t even walk to your horse when it was over. I had to half-carry you.”

  “Now that’s a damn lie. If I hadn’t been pulling my punches so I wouldn’t hurt you too bad . . .”

  “Oh, be quiet, you babble like a gossiping old squaw.”

  “Sam?”

  “What is it now?”

  “What the hell were we fighting over that day?”

  Sam thought for a moment. “A woman, don’t you remember Terri?”

  “Oh, yeah. You ever think about her, Sam?”

  “Not for many months, brother.”

  “Why did you wake me up? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Get your rifle. Something’s wrong.”

  “You just said you didn’t know what it was!”

  “I’m an Indian. I know things that you white people don’t.”

  “You’re half Cheyenne and you were educated back East. I look more Indian than you do.”

  “Then act it. Be quiet for a moment and sniff the air. Feel the tension.”

  Matt listened. The night was totally silent. He sniffed. “Dust,” he said, picking up his rifle. “Let’s go wake up those at the jail.”

  They ran hard and hammered on the office door. Charlie stumbled out, quite a sight to see in his longhandles. “What the devil’s goin’ on, boys?”

  “Too much dust in the air, Charlie,” Matt said. “Nothing’s moving out there; not a cricket, not a bird, not an owl, nothing at all.”

  Charlie nodded and walked to the cold stove. He drank lukewarm coffee right out of the pot while Sam briefed Dewey. Dressed, Charlie passed out shotguns and the men checked their pistols and rifles.

  “Dewey, you defend this office. I’m gonna be yonder in that alley. Matt, Sam, you boys pick your spots.” The sounds of hard-ridden horses reached them. “We ain’t got time to wake the town. Good luck, boys.”

  “Luck to you, too, Charlie,” Matt yelled, running out the door and jumping off the boardwalk, heading for the alley that led to the café/cantina.

  He just made it before the masked men, all wearing long dusters, opened fire, shooting out windows and wantonly firing, not giving a damn if women or children might catch one of their careless bullets.

  Matt lifted the greener and gave a rider both barrels as he galloped past the alley. The charge lifted the man clear out of the saddle and tossed him to the street. Matt dropped the sawed-off and pulled his .44’s and let ’em bang.

  Charlie leveled his express gun and gave both barrels to a rider. Recognizing the night-rider was going to be difficult without a head. Dewey took aim with a rifle and emptied a saddle. Sam fired both barrels of his sawed-off into a knot of riders all bunched up and their screaming cut the night like a knife.

  By this time, the citizens were awake and firing anything they could grab into the shadowy forms of the raiders. The raiders decided that attacking the town had been a really bad idea. They left their dead and wounded behind and galloped out of town.

  “Do we chase them?” Dewey asked Charlie.

  “New. Time we got saddled up they’d be three, four miles ahead of us and all scattered. Let’s see what we got on the ground, boys.”

  “Hell,” Simmons said, rolling over a body. “This here’s Jigger from the Circle V.”

  “This one’s called Boots. He rides—rode—for Hugo Raner,” another citizen said.

  “I don’t know who this is,” a man called. “He ain’t got no face left on him. And not much head left, neither.”

  The raiders left four dead and six wounded behind them, all from either the Lightning or Circle V ranch.

  “Patch them up best you can, Doc,” Charlie said. “Them that can walk is goin’ to jail.”

  “On what charge?” a puncher for Blake Vernon yelled.

  “Four counts of attempted murder,” Charlie told him.

  “Who did we try to kill?” another hand hollered.

  “Matt Bodine, Sam Two Wolves, Dewey Vernon, and me, that’s who, you sorry piece of crap!”

  “Oh, hell, we was just lettin’ off steam!”

  “Well, I got a dandy place for you to cool off,” Charlie told them. “Three meals a day and lots of time to relax. Move, boys. You know the way to the jail.”

  “This one just died,” Doc Lemmon said, standing up over the body of a Circle V rider. “Dear God, when is this killing going to end?”

  “It ain’t even started yet, Doc,” Charlie said. “Raner and Vernon won’t sit still for this. They’ll be comin’ in the mornin’. You’d best
stock up on medical supplies and get ready for it.”

  * * *

  Hugo Raner and Blake Vernon rode into town that Sunday at mid-morning, bringing all their hands with them, and all the punchers heavily armed. Sixty-odd men thundered into town, their horses’ hooves kicking up enough dust to put a cover on everything in town that wasn’t protected. They reined up and dismounted, rifles in hand.

  Every man in the town who could handle a rifle, pistol, or shotgun—that was the entire male population over fifteen—stood up from their positions on the rooftops, the muzzles of their Winchesters, Sharps, Springfield carbines, Spencers, Colts, and Remingtons pointed at the knot of riders on the street below them.

  Matt, Sam, Charlie, and Dewey stood on the boardwalk in front of the sheriff’s office, each of them carrying sawed-off shotguns.

  “Howdy, boys,” Charlie said. “Nice of you to come pay us a visit.” He lifted his greener, the cavernous muzzles of the ten-gauge pointed right at Hugo’s belly. “You seen the sign comin’ into town, so shuck them weapons and let ’em hit the dirt.”

  “We can take you boys down with us,” Hugo said hoarsely.

  “But you’ll be dead first off,” Charlie said. “With your guts spread all over the street.”

  “And you’ll be the second man to be blown in two,” Matt told Blake Vernon. “Is that how you want it?”

  “We’re droppin’ our guns,” Hugo said. “You people just stand easy and ease off them triggers.” He knew that four double-barreled shotguns, at a range of less than fifteen feet, could kill or maim twenty men during the first two seconds of any fight. Hugo dropped his rifle in the dirt, his gunbelt following that.

  The fuse of war was jerked out of the charge . . . for the time being.

  “Now back out in the street,” Charlie told the men. “Away from them guns.”

  The riders complied and townspeople rushed out, collecting the guns and dumping them on the boardwalk. Half a dozen young boys began emptying the weapons of ammo; just the ammunition alone made quite a pile, the brass winking and twinkling in the sunlight.

  “Good,” Charlie said, lowering the express gun. “Now we can talk like civilized folks. What the hell were you boys plannin’ on doin’ in Dale on this fine Sunday mornin’? And don’t give us no crap about attendin’ church.”

  “Some of our men rode in last night, hoo-rahin’ the town,” Blake said. “You killed some and wounded others; put them behind bars. That’s an outrage. They meant no harm. We want them out of jail.”

  Charlie got so mad Matt thought he was going to shoot the man. He quickly stepped in. “No harm?” he questioned. “Why, you dumb clod of dirt, look around you! Those are bulletholes in stores and homes. Two children were hit by bullets—none seriously, thank God—and three women were cut by flying glass. Sixty-five windows were shot out, merchandise in the stores and personal possessions in homes were damaged or destroyed. And you claim no harm was intended. You’re ignorant, Blake, you and that big ox next to you.” Raner flushed at that but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  Sam said, “Worse than being ignorant, you’re dangerous. You and the men who work for you. You have no regard for others; none at all. You think the law doesn’t apply to you. Well, you are very wrong. Your hands are going to be tried in a court of law and probably sentenced to long prison terms. And that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Charlie and Matt began kicking the empty guns off the boardwalk, and they weren’t gentle about it. Rifles and pistols went sailing and plopping into the dirt.

  Charlie pointed to the guns. “Now pick ’em up and get the hell out of town. You want to come back in tomorrow and do some shoppin’ or have a drink, that’s fine. But your guns better be hangin’ on the saddlehorn and your rifles booted. If they’re not, I swear I’ll kill you, and I won’t give you no warnin’ a-tall. I’ll just blow you out of the saddle. Now git!”

  Hugo, Blake, and hands mounted up, the ranch owners sending their men on ahead, except for their sons and the foremen. Hugo glared at the four lawmen on the boardwalk. “You know it isn’t over, Starr. You’re a man of the West; you know how things are done here. You know that we won’t forget this.”

  “You best close your mouth and go home and tend to that sneakin’, back-bitin’, and treacherous daughter of yours, Raner,” Charlie told him. “You got enough grief on your doorstep without askin’ for more.”

  “I don’t need you or anybody else tellin’ me how to deal with my family!” the rancher snapped back.

  “Git!” Charlie said, lifting the shotgun.

  “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man,” Raner said.

  Charlie jacked back both hammers. “I’d be doin’ the world a favor, Raner. Open that big mouth of yours agin and I’ll blow you out of the saddle.”

  Matt, Sam, and Dewey jacked back the hammers on their shotguns.

  Their faces mottled and ugly with hate and rage, the men savagely spurred their horses and galloped out of town.

  “Man who’d treat a good horse like that ought to be shot,” Simmons called from the roof of his store.

  Nobody disagreed.

  * * *

  Sheriff Linwood and deputy were back in town on the Monday afternoon stage. Jack tossed the judge’s reply on the desk and looked at Charlie.

  “You called it, Charlie. The judge said there wasn’t enough to build a case on. He said it was regrettable, but he couldn’t act on the evidence we had—or the lack of it.”

  Dewey stuck his head into the office. “Chrisman just hung a sign on his door,” he announced. “No farmers or sheepmen allowed.”

  “What?” Jack said. “Well, that makes no sense.”

  “He done it,” Dewey said. “And Reed and his boys are just comin’ into town.” The young man looked up toward the other end of the main street.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Sam muttered.

  “And here comes some boys from the Circle V,” Dewey said. “They’re reining up at the Plowshare. And yonder’s Chrisman and a fellow with a bucket of paint and a ladder.”

  The lawmen stepped outside just as a Circle V hand rode up, gunbelts hanging from his saddlehorn. He grinned, or smirked, Matt thought, and handed the weapons to Charlie. “There you are, Mister Badge-Toter. Just like you wanted. Now can I please go run along and have me a peaceful drink?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said, wondering, like the others, what in the world was going on. “You do that.”

  “Oh, thank you so very much, your majesty,” the hand said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  “Move,” Matt told him.

  The men walked up the boardwalk to stand watching as the Plowshare sign was removed and a clean board nailed up. The workman painted the words: CATTLE CLUB in bright red letters.

  Chrisman looked over at the lawmen and grinned. “You like it, boys?” he called.

  “Can’t say that I do,” Jack said. “But I guess we have to live with it.”

  “Or die over it,” Sam muttered.

  “You do have a point,” Matt said.

  Reed and two of his four sons, all big, rangy men, walked up to join the lawmen. The farmer and his sons pulled their weapons from behind their belts and handed over their pistols. “Jake and Joe,” Reed said, pointing to his sons. “What does that sign say hangin’ in the winder over there?”

  Jake squinted. “Says we ain’t welcome in there no more, Pa.”

  “Do tell,” the father said. “Well, I bet Juan don’t mind us comin’ in for a drink. We’ll just amble over there to the cantina and offer our sympathies for what happened to his girl and then have us a taste. How is Victoria?”

  “Physically, she’s fine,” Sam told him. “But the shame is weighing heavy on her mind.”

  “I’ll send my woman in to talk to her. Esther is good at comfortin’ people in times of need. I’ll do that. Come on, boys. We got things to tend to. By your leave, Sheriff.”

  “See you men around,” Jack replied. When the farmer a
nd his sons were out of earshot, Jack said, “Mountain people. Kentucky, Tennessee, somewhere back there. Good people, but I’d sure hate to push them too hard. I’ve seen Reed and his boys back off and put a round into a knothole at five hundred yards. And they didn’t like being banned from Chrisman’s place. Did you notice their eyes?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “Boys, I got me a hunch that those Circle V hands are going to egg on a fight with some farmers this day. And since Reed and his boys are the only farmers in town, it’s gonna be them.”

  “Those cowboys will be sorry they did it,” Sam said. “I have a feeling that those mountain boys grew up on rough and tumble, kick, cut, and gouge fighting.”

  Jack smiled. “I think we’ll just hang around the town today, boys. A good fight is a joy to behold sometimes. And them Circle V boys is sure deservin’ of one.”

  “No one turned in their knives,” Dewey said. “And all of my father’s men carry knifes on their belts. And some of them are pretty good with them . . . so I’ve been told.”

  Jack chuckled. “My daddy come out here from the Blue Ridge Mountains. He toted him a long-bladed knife ’til the day he died. Momma buried it with him. Don’t you worry none about them mountain boys and knifes. Them Reed boys is all carryin’ Arkansas toothpicks—including the father.”

  “I’m going to walk over to the cantina and see Victoria,” Sam said. “I’ll see you boys over there directly.”

  The men split up, Dewey going with Matt and Jimmy walking along with Charlie.

  “More hands coming in,” Jimmy said.

  “I see ’em,” Charlie said. “Them’s some of Hugo’s hands. I don’t like it, boy. Something’s goin’ on.”

  “Like what, Charlie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The Lightning hands rode in with their gunbelts hanging on the saddlehorn. They reined up and smiled at Charlie, meekly handing over their weapons. Charlie didn’t like the glint in their eyes, and neither did Jimmy.

  This bunch headed for the Red Dog.

  “You ever been an outlaw, Charlie?” Jimmy asked.