by Ralph Cotton
She reached under her linen riding shawl and wrapped her hand around the long, slim penknife she’d secreted there before starting her journey across these untamed badlands.
Chapter 12
When the shotgun rider swung open the relay station door and stepped inside, three rifle shots picked him up and hurled him backward, out across the plank porch and into the dirt. The explosions spooked the stage horses. Atop the stagecoach, the driver swung his shotgun up at Russell and Thatcher as the two men came racing toward him from around the side of the building. The rearing, whinnying horses caused the driver’s shotgun blast to go wild. But Russell’s and Thatcher’s shots were dead on-target.
“Jesus!” cried Eddington. “They’re killing us!” He threw open the door and jumped out, Colt in hand, as atop the coach the dead driver landed atop a pile of tied-down luggage and mail sacks. The peddler jerked his hat down snug over his ill-kempt hair and rolled into a ball on the stage floor.
Rachel Meadows jerked the penknife from under her shawl and screamed, then drew it back and stabbed wildly at the air as a shotgun blast sent a spray of the businessman’s blood and brain matter all over her. “Grab the horses!” shouted Chicago from the open doorway.
But before he’d even given the order, Thatcher had already begun scrambling up into the empty, bloody driver’s seat, grabbed the traces and stood holding the horses firmly in place, helped by the brake handle being firmly set. “Whoa. Whoa,” he called out.
“Settle them or shoot them,” Chicago shouted, seeing the horses still rearing high.
“Hold on,” said Candles, running from inside and leaping up atop the big coach beside Thatcher. “We don’t have to kill the horses.” He threw the brake off, let the spooked horses bolt only a step forward, then yanked back hard on the traces. This time the frightened horses came down chuffing and blowing. But they stood in place.
“You have to show them what you want from them when they’re spooked that bad, Thatcher,” he said, knowing it looked good to the others, him taking control of the situation.
Chicago saw what he was trying to do. He played it off with a laugh and said, “All right, hero. Throw down the strongbox and mail sacks while you’re up there giving wagon lessons. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Inside the stagecoach, the peddler looked up at Rachel and whispered, “Get down here and be quiet. They will most certainly kill us!”
But the young woman could see nothing to gain by lying in a ball on the floor. She fell silent, but climbed over the back of the peddler, opened the coach door on the other side and hit the ground at a hard run. Clutching her dress up above her knees, the penknife in her hand, she ran straightaway from the coach out across the rocky, barren land.
Gathering around the strongbox, the gunmen watched her. “That is one fast, high-stepping woman,” said Baldhead Paul, grinning along with the others.
“She is to be sure,” said Chicago. As he spoke he raised his revolver from his waist sash and fired a single shot at the fleeing woman. The young woman flew forward with a loud scream and hit the ground. “Now, back to this,” Chicago said, gesturing toward the strongbox. He fired another shot and watched the brass lock break and fall in two pieces to the dirt.
“She’s back up, Chicago,” said Russell.
“Damn it.” Chicago was more interested in the contents of the strongbox. “Somebody shoot her, please!” he said.
Russell raised a Colt from his holster. But Epps Short said, “No, wait. I’m going to ride out and get her and bring her back. There’s no need in killing her right off. We ain’t even had a chance to say howdy.” He grinned and ran to the horses.
“Suit yourself,” said Russell. He turned back to the strongbox as Chicago reached down and opened it. “My God!” he said at the sight of bound stacks of cash.
In their excitement, the gunmen had not seen Eddie Lane headed their way from the distant hill line. But Lane had drawn closer, hearing the gunshots and seeing what was going on out in front of the relay station. When he’d heard Chicago’s gunshot and saw the woman fall to the ground, his rifle had come out of his saddle boot. He’d levered a round into the chamber one-handed, his horse’s hooves pounding on beneath him, and raised the rifle butt to his shoulder.
On the flats beyond the station, Rachel Meadows had risen to her feet and tried to run farther away. But on the rocky ground, she only made it a few yards before she tumbled back to the dirt. Behind her she heard the sound of Epps’ horse riding down on her. She gripped the penknife to her breast and lay gritting her teeth.
But as Epps Short raced toward her, a silent bullet sliced through his back and blew a hole the size of a large apple in his chest. As the sound of the distant shot caught up to the bullet, Epps had already spilled sidelong from his saddle and fallen dead onto the ground.
“What the hell?” Chicago and the others ducked slightly at the sound of the rifle shot. As they straightened and saw the single rider pounding down on them, Chicago instinctively grabbed the loaded strongbox and dragged it toward the horses around the side of the building. “Shoot that sumbitch!” he shouted.
Seeing the gunmen taking cover, Eddie Lane slid his horse to a halt, leaped down from its back and dropped prone behind a rock. His horse ran a few yards, circled and stopped in the thin shade of a saguaro cactus. “It’s that damn deputy you keep telling us is nobody to worry about!” Chicago shouted at Candles.
“Hold it,” said Oak, standing at a wooden rail fence, his wounded arm hanging limp at his side. “I want to put the first bullet in this ambushing bastard myself.”
“Take cover, damn it,” Candles shouted at him as he hurried around the side of the building.
“Not until I cut his spine out,” said Oak. He laid his rifle up on the rail fence for support and started to stoop down and take aim. But before he could, a bullet slammed into his chest and hurled him backward. He landed dead on the ground, a spray of dark blood settling over him.
“Damn it, somebody shoot him!” repeated Chicago, who had been grabbing bound stacks of paper money from the strongbox and stuffing them inside his duster. From the cover of the side of the building, the gunmen returned rifle fire out across the flats. Yet, even as they fired, a widening drift of rifle smoke was the only sign of anybody being out there.
Firing wildly, the gunmen had gathered closer around the heavy strongbox, stuffing the money into their shirts and riding dusters to make it easier to carry. “He’s a long ways off, Chicago,” said Thatcher, dropping a stack of money back into the strongbox, knowing he’d be taken care of later. “Want me and Russell to circle wide and ride him down while you keep him pinned from here?”
“Yeah, yeah, you do that,” Chicago, sounding detached from the matter and looking more concerned with hoarding the bulk of the cash from the strongbox.
Candles saw his chance and cut in, saying, “I’m riding with them. This stable hand doesn’t kill my two pards and get away with it.”
“Go get him, men,” said Chicago. “We’ll finish cutting up the money and ride the north trail toward Saverine Pass—on to the Roost. Catch up to us on the way. Your share will be waiting.” He grinned and said to the others, “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t expecting such a haul as this. We hit the jackpot here.”
Baldhead Paul gave a leering, lopsided grin of approval, but Buddy Short said angrily, “My poor brother is lying out there blown all to hell! I can’t think of money right now!”
“Then ride out there with them and kill the man,” said Chicago, not being deterred from the large pile of cash in the strongbox. “I’ll see to it you get what’s coming to you.”
Buddy Short considered it, then replied, “I expect brother Epps knew the risk when he decided to ride this outlaw trail.”
“Yeah,” said Chicago, still stuffing cash inside his buttoned duster as Delbert Garr and Baldhead Paul returned fire, “that’s the way I always look at it.”
Inside the plank and adobe relay station,
still tied to his chair, James Earl Coots tipped himself over onto the floor to stay down away from any stray bullets. On the dirt floor beside the bodies of Norman Beale and his old dog, Oscar, Coots rubbed his face back and forth on the rocky ground until he got the bandana off his mouth.
He rolled sidelong until he reached the sharp corner of the stone hearth. There he raised himself high enough to throw himself down and crush the straight-back chair beneath him. Then he hurried out of the loose rope, crawled inside a smaller room off to the side and bolted the thick plank door behind himself.
In moments Coots heard two sets of boots run across the plank porch and into the station. “The bastard’s gotten himself loose,” Coots heard Garr say angrily.
“Try the other room,” Baldhead Paul said. “Chicago wants him dead.”
Coots heard Garr shoulder the bolted door. “To hell with this. If Chicago wants him dead, he can pound this door down and kill him. Let’s get out of here.”
Coots lay as still as stone. He dared not risk standing or moving about until he heard the sound of the gunmen’s horses pounding off across the flatland. “Thank you, Lord . . . ,” he said on a sigh of relief, finally standing, realizing that whoever was out on the flats had saved his life by keeping the gunmen busy while he’d freed himself and locked himself away.
In the front room he hurried to a window and looked out, seeing Buddy Short heft his dead brother across his saddle and hurry away to catch up with Chicago and the others. Beyond where Buddy had picked up Epps’ body, Coots saw the young woman still lying facedown on the ground. Staring for a moment, he saw her raise her face slightly, look back and forth, then lower it, playing it safe, he thought. . . .
Out on the flats, Candles, Russell and Thatcher slid their horses to a slow, cautious walk and looked back and forth in every direction, seeing no sign of the young deputy who had caused all the trouble. “He’s disappeared on us like smoke,” said Russell, his shotgun in his bedroll now and a rifle standing tall, the butt end against his thigh.
“Yeah, he’s vanished,” Thatcher said in disgust, sliding his rifle back down into his saddle boot, his shotgun also stuck in his bedroll. Rather than sit empty-handed, he drew a long Remington from his side holster and held it across his lap.
“Damn it! A son of a bitch can’t just vanish!” Candles said angrily. He jerked his horse back and forth, seeing the disturbed dirt behind the small rock standing at their horses’ hooves, seeing the boot prints leading off to the shade of the tall saguaro cactus where Lane’s horse had stood.
Russell and Thatcher gave each other a look. “This one does,” Thatcher said flatly. Then in the same voice he went on to say, “You know, the one you led to us?”
“Hey, if either one of you’ve got something to say, get it done now,” Candles said.
“I’ve got something to say,” Russell called out, raising his hand as if in a schoolroom. “I believe you’re wanting everybody to decide who should run this gang, you or Big Chicago.”
Candles gave a short, wise grin. “You mean you figured that out all by yourself?”
Russell let the remark pass. “Thatcher and I talked about it. The sooner we decide who’s the boss, the better off we’ll all be.”
“Yeah?” Candles listened intently.
“Nothing against Big Chicago, but he’s not our first pick when it comes to running this kind of business. It just fell to him when Curly Joe got killed.”
“All right,” said Candles, relaxing a little, his interest piquing, his hands crossed on his saddle horn, “I can go along with that.”
Russell said, “So we decided.”
“Yes, and . . . ?” said Candles.
Thatcher gave a short, thin smile. “Guess who we decided on, you turd, poltroon, catamite. . . .” His big Remington turned only slightly on his lap.
“No, wait!” Candles shouted, his confident grin suddenly gone, replaced by a look of terror.
The Remington bucked on Thatcher’s thigh. Candles fell backward from his saddle and hit the ground with a loud grunt. He lay limp and dazed in a cloud of dust. Thatcher and Russell gave each other their same flat expression. “It’s called the democratic process,” Russell said.
“Yeah, I like it,” said Thatcher. He stepped his horse over Candles and leveled the big Remington down at his head. But before he could fire a killing round, dirt kicked up at his horse’s hooves and caused the animal to rear slightly as the sound of the rifle echoed across the flats from the far side of the relay station.
“Jesus!” shouted Russell. “He’s gotten halfway around us.”
“Cut out!” cried Thatcher, jerking his horse sideways and batting his heels to the animal’s flanks.
North of the station, Eddie Lane stood up from the ground and dusted his trousers. As the final two gunmen rode away in a long stream of rising dust, he rode out to where he found Candles crawling across the dirt, struggling to reach his horse standing a few yards away.
“Well, well, it’s Mr. Newton,” he said, stepping down from his saddle. He picked up Candles’ handgun from the ground where it had fallen from his holster and shoved it down behind his belt as he walked over to Candles.
“Don’t—don’t kill me,” Candles pleaded, looking up, seeing the young deputy stop and stand over him, rifle in hand, the tip of the barrel only inches from his face. “You’re a lawman, Eddie . . . you can’t . . . just shoot a wounded man.”
“Yes, I can,” said Lane, cocking the rifle hammer with determination. “Anyway, you’re not wounded. You’re only grazed.”
Candles felt of his bloody, throbbing shoulder with a look of relief, feeling a long cut rather than an open bullet hole. Lucky break. . . . Then he turned his eyes back up to Lane.
“So long, murderer,” said Lane, ready to pull the trigger before Candles even had time to savor his good fortune.
“Wait! I—I can help you,” Candles said. “I know things about . . . Chicago and his men!”
“I don’t care about them,” said Lane. “I only came to kill you, and the men who killed Sheriff Morgan.”
“What about those poor people . . . lying dead back there?” said Candles. “Don’t you . . . owe them anything? What about the others who will die . . . if you don’t stop Chicago and his men?”
The young deputy stopped and looked back toward the relay station, considering it. When he turned back to Candles, the wily gunman had come up with a derringer from his boot and pulled the trigger. The shot sliced through the side of Lane’s neck as he ducked away and kicked the small gun from Candles’ hand.
“Wait—don’t shoot,” Candles shouted, pleading once again now that his sneak attacked had gone afoul. “I—I didn’t mean that. I lost my head.”
Lane quickly grabbed his bandana from around his neck and pressed it to the flowing blood. “On your feet, Mr. Newton,” he said with contempt. “One more move like that and it won’t matter how much you can tell me. I’ll kill you dead.”
Jesus. . . . Candles couldn’t believe it. After all he’d done, this stable hand still wasn’t going to kill him? How stupid could this man be? He stared up at him and raised his good arm chest high, the bullet hole in his shoulder keeping him raising the other. “No . . . I’m all through. You don’t have to . . . worry about me,” he said, giving Lane a whipped-dog look as he struggled up to his feet, the impact of the bullet graze on his shoulder starting to wear off some.
As he righted himself on his feet, Lane jammed the rifle barrel into his side and forced him up into his saddle. “These will keep you honest,” the deputy said, taking a pair of three-way handcuffs from behind his back. He snapped an iron cuff onto each of Candles’ wrists and tightened the third cuff around his saddle horn.
“I mean it,” said Candles, “I won’t give you any more trouble—”
“You’ve seen my rifle shooting,” said Lane, cutting him off. “If you try to make a run for it, I’ll just figure you want to die.” He took the reins to Candles’ horse, tur
ned and stepped up into his saddle and led his prisoner back toward the relay station.
Chapter 13
Instead of riding to the relay station, Eddie Lane rode straight past it to where the woman lay trembling on the ground. Jumping down from his saddle, the young deputy hurried forward, his rifle still in his hand, keeping a watchful eye on the dust still looming above the flats. Beneath the dust he knew that the riders were still riding hard toward the distant hill line.
“Ma’am, get up. Let’s go,” he said as he approached the terrified woman. As he hurriedly stood over her and reached down and took her arm to help her to her feet, he said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to—”
Before he could finish his words, the woman reeled up and around with a loud scream. She drew back the penknife and plunged the blade deep into his chest. From atop his horse, Bobby Candles winced as he saw what happened. But it took him only a second to realize that this was the break he needed. He gave a bemused smile as he saw Eddie Lane stagger back and forth, his rifle falling to the ground as his hands went instinctively to the knife handle and grasped it firmly.
As soon as the woman saw Lane’s face, something told her she had made a bad mistake. “Oh God!” she cried, seeing Lane sink to his knees.
“Bless your heart, ma’am!” Candles chuckled. He batted his horse forward toward the rifle on the ground even though there was no way he could jump down and pick it up with his hands cuffed to the big California-style saddle horn. “Hand me that rifle, lady!” he said, hoping the authority in his voice would cause her to do his bidding without question.
She stared at him in disbelief for a stunned moment, then reached down and picked up the rifle. But instead of handing it to Candles, she raised it and aimed it at him. He watched her fumble with the lever, with no idea how to fire the weapon. Yet. Uh-oh! Candles saw the rifle aimed at him. At the same time he heard a rifle shot explode from the front of the relay station and heard a bullet whistle past his head.
