Six Gun Justice

by David Cross

  He led his horse to the nearest saloon; a place called the Maverick and tied him outside. He stepped into the cool of the building, which smelled of whiskey and stale sweat, leaving the oppressive heat that was already making itself felt, outside. There was no one in the saloon at this early hour. It was probably not past eight yet, so the locals were not out and stirring. The only people who would be looking for a drink at this time of day would be the town drunks, or someone who needed a belt to build their strength, as he did.

  He motioned for the bartender to pour him a drink and leave the bottle. After pouring his drink, the bartender made himself busy at the other end of the long polished bar, wiping glasses. This was fine with Jake, since he had no desire for conversation. He tossed off three quick drinks, dropped a dollar on the bar and pushed back through the batwing doors to the street.

  He would find himself a place to eat, and then see if he could get a line on Murdock. Following his tracks was out. They would be mixed with hundreds of other tracks entering and leaving the city. He would have to make the rounds of the saloons and other establishments and hope to run across his trail. if he knew Jake was on his trail, he would probably lay an ambush for him. He would have to stay on his toes, or he may be the one that wound up six feet under the ground.

  He remembered a sign he had passed on one of the few side streets called the Ox Tail that advertised breakfast, steaks and pie on their front windows. He led his horse to the eatery and tied him in front. Inside, he ordered a large breakfast and a pot of coffee. He devoured the food with gusto, along with five cups of strong black coffee and felt some of the strength return to his pain wracked body. His arm shoulder was not yet fully healed, and the pain from the recent sutures in his side were giving him some discomfort, but all in all, he was sin pretty good shape.

  He dropped a half dollar on the table to cover his meal and a tip for the waitress, stood up, standing in one spot for a few seconds to let the wave of dizziness pass. He must be in worse shape than he figured. Moving slowly, allowing himself time to regain his equilibrium, he made it to the door and went outside into the heat that had climbed a few more degrees since he had entered the restaurant, but at least he was quickly regaining his strength.

  He spent the rest of the day making the rounds of the saloons, eating establishments, mercantile and the like, asking if anyone had see a man fitting Murdock’s description, but with no luck. At noon he stopped into the Ox Tail again for a lunch of steak and potatoes, then continued his search of the town. Either Murdock had not been on the way to Phoenix, or he had turned back at some place along the trail and headed for the Mogollan. Jake did not think he would go back to his ranch though, until he had some backing.

  By late evening, the sun had sapped what little strength he had regained and the lack of sleep had taken a toll as well. He would have to bed down for the night and try again tomorrow. Heading for the Trail Drive hotel on Grant Street, he stopped off at the livery, stabled his horse for the night and paid the hostler fifty cents for him to have him rubbed down and grained well. From there he walked the half block down the street to the Trail Drive, and registered for a room, taking time to glance over the register for Murdock’s name. The only person who had registered since the day before was a lady.

  A couple of questions to the clerk convinced him that he had seen nothing of a man fitting the description Jake gave him. Climbing the stairs to his room, he could now feel the pain in his side, and the loss of blood that had weakened his knees, making his climb arduous. He could feel his head start to spin as he opened the door and leaned back against it for support.

  He stood like that for a few minutes, letting the nausea pass before he moved on to the bed and sat gingerly on the edge. He shucked his gunbelt and fell back on the bed, looking up at the bare white ceiling, with its dancing shadows. He was so tired, he did not want to rise again, but he made the effort after a good half hour and slipped out of his boots and shirt. The rest would have to wait, he thought, as he lay back on the bed again and closed his heavy eyes.

  He dreamed of his wife, waiting for him at the ranch, as least he hoped she would be there when he returned. She stood on the front porch motioning to him frantically as he rode in, trying to tell him something, but he could not hear her voice. As he drew near the porch a shot rang out and he could see the puff of smoke from a hidden gunman among the trees and felt the bullet strike him in the stomach.

  Waking in a well of cold sweat, he wiped his hand over his eyes, trying to wipe away the last vestiges of sleep and the dream that seemed so real. The wound in his side was hurting and he could feel a slight dampness when he touched the bandage. He was bleeding a little. He got up, lit the lamp that sat on the bureau and inspected the bandage. There was only a small amount of blood there, but the pain was like a hot poker against his side and stomach.

  He lay back down on the bed, closing his eyes and trying to rest. It didn’t take him long to regain the sleep from which he had awakened, this time without benefit of the nightmare. It was a fitful sleep that left him drained in the morning. He sat for a long time on the side of the bed, trying to clear his head and get up enough energy to make it the rest of the way up.

  It was a great effort for him to slip into his shirt and bend to pull on his boots, but he finally accomplished the chore without passing out. He splashed cold water on his face, shocking his senses back to a semblance of reality and buckled on his gunbelt, feeling the weight of the instrument hanging heavy at his side as he forced himself to don his hat and head for the door.

  He had paid for his room in advance, so he stepped into the street in front of the hotel, feeling as though he had been hit in the stomach with a mallet. Ignoring the pain was not new to him, since he had had some practice in the war. Wounds were common then and medical attention was very rare, especially when the Yanks had them on the run most of the time.

  He walked to the livery, collected his horse and strolled down the street, just as the sun peeped over the horizon to the east, driving away the shadows of early morning and bringing in a bright new day. He knew it would be another hot one, just like all the days in this part of Arizona Territory. He led his horse to the rail in front of the Ox Tail and went inside.

  He gave his order to the young man in an apron, and sat back, rubbing at the bandage around his middle. The steak and eggs helped with some of the weakness, but did nothing to alleviate the pain he felt.

  The doctor had offered him a bottle of laudanum before he left his office, but he had refused it. He had seen too many soldiers succumb to the addictive drug during the war and wanted nothing to do with it. He drank three large glasses of milk with his meal, which seemed to give him a better lease on life, and tried to ignore his discomfort as much as he could. It was going to be a long day.

  He lingered over his meal, relishing the sustenance and the small comfort he derived from the still cool air of the morning. After he had finished, he rolled a cigarette from the makings in his shirt pocket and sat smoking as he watched the other patrons enter, one by one for a morning meal. He watched all the faces the entered, hoping against hope that he would see Murdock enter the establishment, but it was a wish that din’t come tp pass.

  The rest of the day was spent making the rounds of the hotels, saloons, eating establishments and people that Murdock was likely to make contact with. The day grew hotter, but Jake’s strength increased with the rebuilding of the blood he had lost. He was about to give up the search, thinking that his man had not come to Phoenix after all, when he happened onto a Mexican doctor near the south end of the town.

  He would have missed the place completely, it he had not been watching the pretty Mexican woman in the side yard of the adobe building hanging out a number of sheets on a clothesline. It started his mind wandering to why so many sheets. Then his eyes fell on the small hand painted sign on the post of the front veranda of the house.

  He decided to try once more, and walked through the entrance of the til
ed patio, which was shaded by a huge Mexican Elder, lending coolness to the well-appointed courtyard. He knocked on the door and waited for an answer. When none was forthcoming, he tried the door and found it unlocked. Sticking his head inside, he quickly scanned the room, noting that it had a worn couch, a small examining table with a clean white sheet pulled tightly across the pad and a small pillow gracing one end.

  There were paintings on the walls that depicted a bullfighter, a Spanish lady in a mantilla, and a diploma issued by a prominent university in Mexico. The place was spotlessly clean, and showed the touches of a woman, probably the young woman that had been hanging the sheets. He took another step inside the door, the tinkling of the bell bringing a man through a curtain hug doorway.

  “May I help you Senor?”

  “Maybe,” Jake responded dejectedly. “I’m looking for a gent that might have come this way. I think he might have been wounded. If it was bad enough, he might have needed some doctoring.”

  “And what, may I ask do you want with this man?” the young doctor asked, he Mexican accent pronounced and very apparent to Jake.

  “Im hunting him. He’s a killer,” Jake said simply.

  “Are you a law man Senor?”

  “Nope, just a rancher. This man killed a lot of innocent people.”

  “What do you intend to do with him when you find him?”

  Jake looked into the kind eyes of the doctor, sizing him up instantly as a bleeding heart. If he told him he would gun the man down, he would get no information from him. On the other hand, if he told him he wanted to bring him to the law for justice, he just might get some help.

  “I just want to bring the man in to stand trial,” he said tiredly. “Have you seen him?”

  Pulling at his lip the doctor mused for a few seconds before answering, “Yes, I have seen such a man. He was here yesterday. I treated him for a gunshot wound in leg. He was very fortunate that it was a clean wound. He told me he had shot himself when he was practicing with his gun. I thought at the time it sounded suspicious, but I said nothing. I thought he had something to hide, but it is not my place to do the work of the law.”

  Jakes adrenaline pumped into his system, giving him renewed strength. He had hit pay dirt. He almost held his breath as he asked, “Did he give any indication where he was going?”

  “He said something about having to get to Casa Grande. That was about noon yesterday, so I guess he had plenty of time to make it, though I advised him to take a couple of days and rest. I had to take at least ten stitches in his thigh and he had lost some blood. I can see by the bloodstain on your shirt that you too have had to seek medical attention. Was this caused by the man you seek?”

  “Yes doctor, he tried to kill me, and I shot back. There were two of them and just one of me.”

  “And where is the other man?” he asked softly.

  “I left him for the carrion, after he tried to shoot me in the back. Now I want to find his partner and bring him in,” he lied.

  The doctor looked at him with doubt written on his face, but he said nothing. he could tell by the big gringo in front of him, that he was not the time to take his problems to the law. He was still staring at him when the woman Jake had seen hanging sheets came through the door. She was even more striking up close.

  “Senor, may I present my wife Katrina Villanova,” he said. “And your name Senor?”

  “Jake Killman ma’am. Pleasure meeting you, and thanks for your help doctor,” he said, turning to leave.

  “Senor, before you leave, I would be honored if you would take some wine with us.”

  “Thanks doctor, but I need to keep a clear head.”

  “The offer is purely a medical interest Senor. The wine is good for building the blood you have lost. It is very low in alcohol, so it should not impair your…er…abilities. Besides, your man will wait for you, I’m sure. He too will have to rest soon, or he will die.”

  Jake nodded, watching the doctor pour a couple of small glasses of wine for himself and his wife and a larger glass for himself. He thought about the weak state he had been in that morning and decided that wisdom was the better part of valor.

  He accepted the proffered glass of wine and sipped at it. He had never been much of a wine drinker, but this was fine Madeira, very rare in this country. He savored the taste of the wine and could feel the renewed vigor it produced. He had heard something about fruit juices being good for replenishing blood, but never wine. But the man was a doctor, after all, so he must have more knowledge than Jake about what was good for him and what was not.

  Finishing the wine, he again thanked the doctor, shook hands with the man and left. He felt better than he had felt for the last two days. Maybe there was something to that bit about wine replenishing lost blood. It was late evening when he left Phoenix, so within three hours darkness was fast approaching. He found a narrow strip of ground near a dry wash and set up camp.

  His mind told him that trying to travel at night was a foolhardy thing to do, but his desire to catch up with Murdock was almost enough to overpower his logic. With a great deal of tribulation, he stopped for the night.

  The next morning, he was on his way again before daylight had even started to break over the land. By noon, the city of Casa Grande was only a mile in front of him, and the sun was baking his brain and wrenching sweat from him, soaking his shirt. He was thoroughly miserable, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that he was close to the end of his hunt.

  The town was little more than a cross road in the arid countryside, with a street laid out along the main trail to Tucson and another laid out along the trail that led into the west, toward Yuma. Two sun bleached adobe structures sported signs on the front, pronouncing them to be saloons, with a livery alongside one, set under the biggest cottonwood Jake had ever seen. There was an eating-place of sorts, a small mercantile, with devil dogs dancing in the dusty street. It was truly a sight that was akin to hell.

  A makeshift two-story adobe squatted nearest him as he entered the town. The faded sign had the plain legend HOTEL on the front. Stopping his mare in front, he swung from the saddle and tied the reins to the bleached out pole that served as a hitching post.

  The inside of the hotel was cool compared to the blast furnace he had just left, but the décor was nothing more than bare walls, upon which a small scorpion scuttled. The front desk was nothing more than a section from some defunct bar shoved against one wall and a rack in back of it with six cubbyholes for the keys. The San Francisco Palace it wasn’t, he thought, but it would suffice for his short stay here in this God forsaken place.

  He hit the small bell on the desk and a fat Mexican woman shuffled from a door that led to the rear of the main floor. She eyed him suspiciously, went behind the makeshift desk and turned a stained register around for him to sign, never having said a word. He scribbled his name in the book and quickly scanned the names on the page.

  His pulse quickened as he spotted the name Harvey Murdock above his own. He had caught up with the bastard at last.

  “Is Harvey Murdock in his room?” he growled.

  The Mexican woman said nothing, just looked at him and shook her head. Jake had to admit that he had never met a person who said less than this mountain of flesh.

  “Where could I find him?” he asked her, marveling that she did not sweat and seemed never to get excited.

  Again she said nothing, just pointed up the street toward where the two saloons and the livery. There was little else in the town that would draw a human being, os he guessed Murdock was in one of the drinking holes. He took his key, looked at the number on the tag and went back outside. His horse was waiting with a bowed head.

  Leading the animal to the livery, he spotted Murdock’s horse in one of the pens beneath the huge cottonwood, his blood beginning to dace through his veins in a dance of expectation. He unsaddled the mare, turned her into the corral, took the Henry carbine from its sheath, paid the hostler a quarter to rub down the animal and gr
ain her.

  The first of the salons was only a few steps to the left of the corral, so he headed in that direction. He was almost at the front of the saloon he had chosen, when Murdock exited the saloon across the street, his head bent and a hand shading his eyes from the sun. he did not see Jake until he was in the middle of the dusty street. He did a jerky double take, his hand starting for his pistol and then thinking better of it, he raised his hand clear of his gun, signaling his intent not to draw.

  “Murdock!” Jake barked. “Fill your hand.”

  “I’m not drawing against you Killman! I know I can’t beat you to the draw. It will be murder if you shoot me!”

  “I always knew you were a chicken hearted coward. I’m taking you back to answer for your crimes against the people of the Mogollan Rim, but I would rather take you back across your saddle.”

  “I’m not going any place with you Killman and you can’t make me.”

  “We’ll see about that, Jake growled, closing the gap between them. “I don’t have to kill a snake like you to take you back.”

  His hand drew the Colt from his holster quicker than Murdock could see. Before he knew what was about to happen, Jake had brought the pistol around in a vicious arc, slamming the barrel into the side of his head. Murdock slid to the dusty street with a moan, trying to grab Jake for support.

  By the time he had dropped at Jake’s feet, a few men had come out of the saloon Murdock had just left, to see what all the ruckus was about. When they saw the man lying at Jake’s feet and Jake with a gun in his hand, they were unsure what to make of it. There had not been a shot, but there lay a man in the street, for all intents, looking as dead as a fence post.

  “Hey mister, what the hell are you doing to that man?” a voice yelled from the front of the saloon.

  “Taking him prisoner. Stay out of it cowboy, it’s none of your business,” Jake responded.