Stagecoach to Purgatory

by Peter Brandvold

  “I’m losing the ranch, Mary. Three hard winters in a row have crippled me financially. Creighton has better protected range in those canyons to the north. As far as hands, I am down to those four men out there. They are the last of my role, because I can’t afford to pay any more!”

  “So rather than lose the ranch, you sold me to . . . your worst enemy?”

  “I couldn’t relinquish the ranch. My father built it! Your aunt and I grew up there!”

  “Aunt Grace is dead.”

  “I know that. I saw the body on the stage . . . after the horses broke away and dumped it in a ravine.” Dunbar convulsed with a mewling wail, raked his big hand down his face, swallowed. “I’ve taken her home, buried her.” He turned to Prophet. “Who killed her?”

  “A pack of outlaws at the Porcupine Station. They must have got word you were haulin’ that much money here on the coach. And your daughter . . . to sell.” Prophet put extra emphasis on sell, showing his disdain for the man on his knees before him.

  Dunbar flushed sheepishly. He turned to Mary. She stared at her foster father, tears still streaming down her cheeks, upper lip quivering. Dunbar crawled forward, placed his hands on her knees. “There is something more. I’m dying. I have a cancer. A doctor in Cheyenne diagnosed it. I have three, maybe four months left.”

  Mary didn’t respond to that. At least, not on the outside.

  “The thirty thousand was to keep Grace in the house until she passed, and to keep a couple of men around to try and hold the wolves at bay.”

  “You sold me for thirty thousand dollars,” Mary said, voice pitched with both awe and exasperation.

  “For thirty thousand and the ranch, Mary!” Dunbar cried. “Thirty thousand and the ranch. Don’t you see? It was in your best interest. Creighton has money. He’s a rich man. While I may not like the man, our enmity stemmed from business. It wasn’t personal. He raised a family at his place, lost his wife a few years ago. He lost his little girl just after she was born; both boys died in a stampede. But he treated his kids and his wife well. They were well provided for. He would have treated you well, too. He would have provided for you.

  “He’s old, Mary. Nearly as old as I. He won’t live that much longer. And then . . .” Dunbar shook his head in wonder. “And then all that land would have been yours. By then, Grace would likely also have died, and you could have had the Three-Box-D, as well. Combined the two ranges. You could have had an empire out here!”

  Mary leaned forward, placed her hands on her father’s hands, atop her knees. Her hands were small, brown, smooth, and young. His were as large and red as roasts. They dwarfed hers. She dug her fingers into his flesh. “Did you ever think to discuss this diabolical scheme with me—your daughter?”

  Dunbar frowned, as though perplexed by the question.

  Mary wrinkled a nostril at him, shook her head. “No. You didn’t. Why? Because I’m Indian? Because, since I am Indian—though you did your best to raise me white—maybe you see me first as property and then as your daughter . . .”

  “Mary, no.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it, Pa?”

  “Mary, sweet Mary—you could have had an empire!”

  “Well, I’m sorry you didn’t ask me. If you had, I would have told you that I didn’t want an empire. There is no way in hell you’re ever going to get me to live with Sand Creighton!”

  “Don’t worry. I realize what an awful mistake that was. Mary, I was drunk that night. And desperate. But believe me when I tell you that I realize what a mistake I made. I’m here to take you home. For good!”

  “Yeah, well, Creighton himself is gonna have somethin’ to say about that,” John Leonard said, sneering.

  Dunbar turned to him, rose with a grunt, knees popping. He squared his shoulders at the grinning Leonard then jerked his right hand down to his holster. He whipped up his Bisley .44 and sent two deafening blasts rocketing throughout the saloon.

  Mary jerked in her chair and screamed.

  The bullets slammed Leonard back against the bar. The man looked dumbfounded. Blood geysered from the twin holes in his chest. He twisted around, grabbed for the edge of the bar, but there was no strength in his hands.

  He hit the floor on his knees then turned again and piled up at the bar’s base on his back, legs twisted, jerking and bleeding as he died.

  “My God!” Lola said, leaping out of her chair and slapping a hand to her chest in astonishment.

  Outside, more guns popped.

  “Mr. Dunbar!” a man shouted. “We got trouble, Mr. Dun—!”

  He was cut off by another blast. Horses whinnied shrilly. Men shouted.

  As more guns popped, Prophet ran to the batwings and pressed his shoulder against the wall left of the doors. He shoved the left batwing open with his left hand and peered out.

  Dunbar’s four men lay belly down in the street. Their horses were fleeing in opposite directions as six riders galloped up in front of the saloon, their horses kicking up mud from the growing puddles. They were led by a portly gent in a yellow india rubber rain slicker and a broad-brimmed, bullet-crowned, cream Stetson with an Indian-beaded band, the thong jostling beneath his chin.

  All six turned their horses to face the saloon, smoking rifles resting butt down against their thighs.

  Lightning flashed in the sky above them. Thunder clapped. The rain came straight down. Not a torrent by any means, but a steady summer squall.

  “You in there, Dunbar?” shouted the portly gent—Sand Creighton, Prophet assumed. “We made a deal—you and me. You send the girl out here or we’re gonna come in and drag her out kicking and screaming!”

  Dunbar had moved up behind Prophet, his pistol in his hand. He canted his head to the right, to see out the open batwing.

  “Creighton!” he raked out. “Christ!”

  Prophet glanced behind and jerked his head toward the saloon’s far wall. Quickly, Lola grabbed Mary’s arm, pulled the girl out of the chair, and ushered her out of the line of fire from the door.

  Dunbar glanced at Prophet. “I’ll try to reason with him.”

  “Might not be possible. He looks a mite het up.”

  Dunbar brushed Prophet, pushing out the right batwing as he stepped onto the boardwalk. When the echo of another thunderclap had passed, he said, “I know we made a deal, Sand. But I’m reneging on it. I did an awful thing. I can’t turn Mary over to you. You can take your money back.” A brief pause. “And you can take the ranch, as well. It’s yours. Just leave Mary alone.”

  “Where’s the money?” Creighton yelled above the rain.

  Prophet stepped out to stand beside Dunbar. “It’s in the coach. In my saddlebags in the rear luggage boot.”

  “The coach is piled up in Bull Creek north of town,” Dunbar added.

  “Good to know,” Creighton said. He lifted his left hand. Prophet saw that he held a bottle in that hand. He raised the bottle to his lips, took a long drink, set the bottle back down on his thigh.

  He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and grinned inside his wet, sandy-colored beard. “But I want the girl, too, Vance. She stabbed me in the belly. Nothin’ too serious. I’ll get over it. But I’ll be damned if I ain’t mad!” He gave a dry chuckle. “The little squaw needs a lesson taught her, and since you weren’t man enough to do it at home, it’s gonna be up to her husband. That’s me!”

  “No!” Dunbar shouted. “I told you—you can have the ranch! Take your money back! But Mary is off the table!”

  “No, she ain’t! She’s mine! I been wantin’ that little squaw for years! Now she’s mine, and I ain’t goin’ home without her!”

  Dunbar bounded forward. “You drunken devil!” As he raised his Bisley, Creighton snapped his rifle to his own shoulder and fired.

  Dunbar lunged back, stunned, and triggered his Bisley into the boardwalk.

  “Get inside!” Prophet shouted, grabbing the wounded rancher by his arm, twisting him around and shoving him through the batwings.

  As the bou
nty hunter turned around to face the six horseback riders, he was met with six separate gun flashes and a hail of hot lead storming toward him.

  Chapter 21

  As bullets tore into the front of the Lazy Day Saloon, cracking through the batwings and shattering the glass of the big front window, Prophet dove behind the stock trough fronting the boardwalk to his left.

  He snaked his Peacemaker up over the trough and fired three shots, all missing their targets as the riders’ horses danced around in front of the saloon. He was just wishing he had his Winchester when Lola yelled through the broken-out window behind him, “Lou!”

  He shot her a look. She hurled his Winchester through the window. Prophet dropped the Peacemaker and caught the rifle over the boardwalk. “Thanks, but get your head down!”

  He pulled his own head down behind the stock trough as more bullets chewed into it and screeched through the air around him.

  The shooting stopped.

  Prophet looked over the trough. The six riders were in the midst of dismounting their leaping horses. Sand Creighton dropped his right boot to the ground but his left one got caught in the stirrup. His horse wheeled. Creighton screamed and flew sideways. His boot jerked free and he hit the muddy street and rolled.

  The other riders dropped to their knees, raising their rifles toward Prophet.

  The bounty hunter cursed and cut loose, the Winchester roaring savagely. He dropped two men right away, punched them back onto the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street. The three others hammered the front of the stock trough with lead. Prophet jerked his head down to keep it from getting blown off. He crawled to the stock trough’s right side, snaked his rifle around it, and dispatched two more Creighton men.

  The fifth man leaped to his feet and ran for cover.

  Prophet blew his legs out from under him. The man screamed and piled up in a big mud puddle. He stretched an arm out for his rifle. Lifting his head, he cast his gaze toward Prophet, his eyes reflecting the yellow light flickering out from over the batwings and through the broken window behind Lou.

  The bounty hunter drew a bead on the man’s broad forehead.

  The Winchester roared.

  The fifth man’s head jerked back on his neck then dropped straight down to the mud puddle. Prophet saw little bubbles forming around the man’s face in the puddle as he died.

  Prophet racked a fresh round. He looked around for Creighton. The fat rancher was not where Prophet had last seen him.

  Prophet rose to his knees, frowning.

  Creighton rose up in front of him. He’d been crawling toward the trough, dragging his belly through the muddy street. The fat, round-faced, bearded rancher wasn’t wearing his hat. He was nearly bald save for a few strands of sandy gray hair. His mouth formed a savage grimace as he extended a long-barreled Smith & Wesson at Prophet. Prophet whipped his rifle around and squeezed the trigger.

  It clicked, empty.

  A gun popped behind the bounty hunter. A round hole appeared in the rancher’s forehead. Creighton triggered the Smithy over Prophet’s right shoulder and into the boardwalk running along the front of the Lazy Day. His eyes rolled back into his head as he dropped forward to hang his head and arms into the stock trough, like a drunk heaving up his guts.

  He shook his head and then just hung there, dead, his head in the trough.

  Prophet glanced over his left shoulder. Lola stared through the broken-out window, wide-eyed, a smoking, pearl-gripped .41 caliber Colt in her hand.

  “Thanks,” Prophet said.

  Lola stared at the dead Sand Creighton. She looked at Prophet. “Are there any more out there?”

  Prophet shook his head.

  Lola gave a wan half smile as she lowered the smoking pistol. “Why don’t you come in out of the rain, then, Lou?”

  Prophet nodded, rose heavily to his feet. “Yeah. Why don’t I?”

  * * *

  The saddlebags were where Prophet had placed them in the stagecoach’s rear luggage boot.

  The coach itself had broken free of the runaway team and had landed on its side in Bull Creek, a shallow dry wash about a half a mile southwest of Jubilee. Prophet reached into the boot, dragged out his bags. He settled them onto the ground between his knees and opened the flaps. He’d placed two of the money sacks into the left pouch, the other sack in the right one.

  All three were where he had left them.

  He held one of the bags up to show Lola and Mary. The two women were on hands and knees, gazing down over the lip of the cutbank at him. Lola smiled. Mary’s face remained expressionless. The bright morning sun touched their hair, and the breeze, warm now after last night’s rain, tussled their hair about their faces.

  “It’s all here,” Prophet said.

  He carried it up onto the cutbank and stood before Lola and Mary. Mary’s father, Vance Dunbar, was resting in the box of the wagon parked on the trail about fifty yards to the east, a white-socked black gelding in the traces. The bullet he’d taken last night had only grazed the top of his left shoulder, but the past twenty-four hours had taken a lot out of him, as weak as he already was from the cancer.

  He sat in the box, his back resting against its front panel, wrapped in blankets. He stared forlornly straight out behind the wagon, toward the widely scattered, bullet-shaped northern buttes. He hadn’t said a word since the last words Prophet had heard him say to his daughter the night before, which had been: “Please forgive me.”

  Three men from the stage station in Deadwood were removing the blanket-wrapped bodies of Mort Seymour and J. W. Plumb from where Prophet had tied them to the top of the stage. They were just now carrying Seymour to where a small buckboard waited on the cutbank. This day marked a grave and somber end to the stage line’s route through Jubilee.

  “Thirty thousand dollars here,” Prophet said, patting the saddlebag pouch hanging down over his left shoulder. “Creighton won’t be needing it where he is. Why don’t you take it, Mary? Sounds like you and your old man could use it.”

  Mary turned her head to stare at where her father sat in the wagon, wearing his high-crowned Stetson, blankets pulled up to his weathered cheeks. She turned back to Prophet, shook her head. “I want nothing to do with Creighton’s money, Lou.”

  “Are you and your pa going to be all right, Mary?” Lola asked her, sliding an arm around her shoulders.

  Mary nodded. “He asked me to forgive him, and I have. I’ll try to make him as comfortable as I can in the time he has left. Then I’ll bury him beside Aunt Grace.”

  “I reckon you’ll figure out the next step when you come to it,” Prophet said.

  Mary smiled up at the tall bounty hunter. “Thank you, Lou. For all you’ve done for me an’ . . . for Pa.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Prophet wrapped his arms around her, gave her a good, long hug, and kissed her cheek. Mary gazed up at him, fondness sparkling in her eyes. She glanced quickly at Lola and then returned her gaze to Lou as she said, “Are you going to hang around here for a while? In Jubilee?”

  Prophet glanced at Lola, who smiled at him a little sheepishly. His ears warming, he said, “Yeah, I reckon I will. I ain’t fully recovered yet.” He stretched his back, giving a maudlin wince and a grunt. “I’ll probably spend a few days”—he glanced at Lola again—“restin’ up before I see about heading back to Cheyenne and picking up my hoss.”

  “Will you ride out and see me at the Three-Box-D before you go?”

  “I’d purely admire to do that.”

  “I’ll make supper and you can spend the night.” Mary’s eyes flicked toward Lola once more.

  “That sounds even better.”

  “Good-bye, Lou.” Mary kissed his cheek. She turned and gave Lola a parting hug, and then, lifting her skirts above her ankles, began walking back toward the wagon. She climbed up into the driver’s boot, released the brake handle, shook the reins over the horse’s back, and began rattling off along the trail to the north.

  She gl
anced back at Prophet and Lola, and waved.

  They returned the gesture.

  “She’s quite a girl,” Lola said, watching the wagon grow small in the distance. She gave Prophet a light elbow to the ribs. “But, then, you probably know that better than anybody—don’t you, Lou?”

  Prophet gave a guilty snort.

  “What about the money?” he said as he and Lola began walking over to where their saddled horses stood ground-tied. “You might as well take it. Sounds like Creighton didn’t have any family . . .”

  “I don’t want that money,” Lola said. “Why don’t you take it? That much jingle should keep you off the bounty trail for at least a month.”

  Prophet made a face, shook his head. “I can’t take money I didn’t earn.”

  “Well, what are you going to do with it, then?” Lola stopped by her horse and frowned up at him.

  Prophet looked around. He spied a small pile of jumbled rock nearby. He walked over to it, rolled back a couple of the rocks, then deposited the money sacks into the hollow. He rolled the rocks back over the sacks. The rocks looked as though they’d never been moved.

  Turning to Lola, he said, “There. If at any time in the future you need that money, you know where it’s at.”

  “I won’t take that money,” Lola said. “Not knowing what Creighton wanted to do with it. Besides, it’s blood money now.”

  “Just in case,” Prophet said.

  “All right,” Lola said, chuckling. “We’ll call it Just in Case Loot. Only you and I know about it. It’ll be our secret.” She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her breasts against his chest, and kissed him.

  She pulled her head back from his, tugged on his ears. “Now, why don’t we head back to the Lazy Day? I think you still have some more recovering to do, don’t you, Lou?”

  Prophet kissed her. He made a face of mock misery. “Oh, Lordy, I think you’re right. I been out in the sun too long. I think I need at least a couple of hours—maybe the whole rest of the day and night . . . maybe the whole day tomorrow, too—under the sheets!”

  He had some time to kill. After all, Clovis Teagarden was probably still crying rape back in Denver . . .