Six-Gun Serenade: A Porter Rockwell Adventure (Dark Trails Saga Book 0)

by David J. West

  Warner shrugged. “All right. Biggest regret. I let the best man I have ever known die.”

  “You did? How?”

  “Simple, I wasn’t there to stop the ones that killed him. I should’a been. Had to kill some of those pukes a little while later.”

  “Ah, so you did have revenge and murder!”

  Warner shrugged again, at the idea that what he had done was murder. He certainly didn’t look like he had regretted the killings.

  “Mr. Davison. And you? What is the worst thing you have ever done?”

  “I—I—I.” His mind had truly gone blank. He couldn’t remember anything in that moment. “I’ve tried to live my life to the fullest. I’ve committed no crime. Lived no great regret. Done no wrong to my fellow man.”

  Landreth stalked forward and struck Davison across the face. “You disappoint me. You are the worst liar here out of all of us.”

  The crowd of desperadoes laughed in grisly jest.

  Landreth continued, “It’s a good thing you have skills we need, because otherwise,” he shook his head, “You’re not a brother to us,” he snapped. Landreth then went into a sermon of sorts, a twisted strange thing wherein he stood upon a stump like a preacher and told them all how he had been given a dream or a vision from the Lord, who had shown him exactly where the mine was and that he should be the instrument of God and that one half of all the money from the mine should go to his new church, which he was of course, the prophet and leader of.

  Despite their bizarre bonding experience earlier, the men argued against this stating that they had all been promised equal shares. Landreth again convoluted the tension by proclaiming he should be blindfolded again to go into his trance and inquire of the princess.

  “She has abandoned me,” he cried. “Princess Raven-Eye will no longer answer my pleas because of your murmurings and disbelief. We shall just have to go looking ourselves without her help or God’s.”

  “Didn’t he just say he was a prophet?” asked Mozzy.

  “Be quiet,” urged Davison. “No sense in baiting a rattler.”

  Pope bellowed, “Warner, you’re in charge of camp. You, Roberts, Davison, Echo, and Mozzy all stay here.”

  “Why? Shouldn’t we all be looking for the gold?” protested Mozzy.

  “In case of Indians, ya greenhorn,” Pope said, with a malevolent chuckle.

  Warner dryly nodded and took a big swallow of his Valley-Tan whiskey before settling down for what looked like a mid-morning nap.

  Pope continued, “Nobody leaves, or else.” He made a slice against the throat gesture. “Roberts, you better have a decent meal by sunset when we get back or you’re gonna get it double.” He slapped his leather glove in his opposite hand and then made a motion like he was dropping something down a well.

  The message came through perfectly clear. Roberts made no protest.

  The rest of the gunmen all paired off to hunt for the mine, the last two being Landreth and Pope.

  An hour after the gang was good and gone, Warner perked up and had all the men present form into a circle about the cook fire. “Here’s the pickle,” he said. “Pope and Landreth decided last night that soon as the gold is found, all of you are expendable.”

  “Expandable?” asked Echo.

  Warner smacked him over the top of the head with his hat. “Dead, you idjit.”

  “Why?” asked Davison.

  “They thought they might need more guns in case there was a problem with the Utes, but since there’s been no sign of ‘em the last day or two, that worry disappeared back to the original plan of dividing that gold as few ways as possible. Nothing makes men greedier than the possibility of more.”

  “Should we just run off?” asked Mozzy.

  Warner shook his head, “That missing man, Price, is waiting at the bottom of the canyon with the horses. Any of you show up and he’ll shoot you down. He’s got a good lookout spot and he’s waiting for just such a thing to happen. Pope is a bully but he ain’t a fool.”

  “What do we do?” asked Roberts.

  “What do you do?” said Echo.

  Warner looked like he was gonna cuff Echo again but he restrained himself. “Act like you’re not onto them. Davison, you’ve got the most important job, whatever ore they bring back, you test it, but tell them it’s no good. It might just save all your lives,” he said. Warner then reached into his vest and withdrew a six-gun. He had at least three more snub-nosed revolvers leering from his person. “Here take this one. Made by a friend of mine, Browning.”

  “I don’t know that I should,” said Davison. “I wanted to stay clear of any reason for someone to shoot me.”

  Warner snorted at that. “A six-gun serenade is coming, so you’d best learn to play the notes.” The long-haired gunman’s cold stare burned into Davison who looked away. But he reluctantly took the six-gun from the gunslinger and put it into his coat pocket.

  Davison said, “I had hoped that if everyone knew I was unarmed there wouldn’t be any ill will.”

  “Too late for that. This world is full of folks who don’t give a damn what anyone else’s standards are and will put the hurt on you but good. It’s up to us to be prepared.”

  Davison asked, “Why are you helping us? Aren’t you one of them?”

  “Whoever said I was? I didn’t.” With that, Warner stalked back out toward the cabin and found himself a nice spot on the porch to sit and take a nap.

  “Told you, I thought he was a good man, even with those evil eyes of his,” said Roberts.

  Mozzy nodded. “I think I know who he is now.”

  “Who?”

  “The Destroying Angel, Porter Rockwell.”

  The men looked at the black bearded gun-fighter now stretched out like a big cat taking its afternoon nap.

  “You think so?”

  “Sure, long hair, eyes that see through you. He is always in the thick of trouble, but looking out for good folks while he punishes the bad ones. You see those snub-nosed revolvers he had? That’s what Porter is known to carry. It’s him all right.”

  Echo gulped, “It’s him all right. I’ve heard tell that he’s killed hunerds of men.”

  Roberts agreed. “If the stories are only half true that’s still more than anyone else I could shake a stick at. And I wouldn’t shake no stick at him that’s for sure.”

  Davison had heard plenty of stories himself. It was hard to say what was true anymore, so much confusion in the world, so many lies. But when he had looked into the man’s ice-blue eyes, he knew he was staring death in the face. “I’ll help you get supper started,” he said to change the subject.

  ***

  As the azure sky bruised to a bright red in the west, Landreth and Pope came back into camp. Most of the others soon joined them. All of them were equally somber. Supper was eaten in harsh silence and it was apparent they hadn’t found anything despite Landreth’s supposed gifts.

  Just as night fell, the last two men, Connors and Galbraith, stumbled into camp. Landreth and Pope were up in a flash of crazed excitement. “What did you find?”

  The first of the two nervously shook his head, “Nothing. We didn’t find nothing.”

  Pope’s scowl grew but he barked at the other, “You! What did you find you backstabbing polecats!”

  “Nothing, Boss.”

  “They’re lying! Search ‘em!” ordered Landreth.

  Connors reached for his gun, but Pope was fast as a King Rattler and shot the man down. Galbraith tried to run but Pope shot him in the back. The first man was dead but the runner still sputtered as scarlet rapidly soaked his canvas trousers. The gang dragged him into the cruel firelight and searched him, finding that his pockets contained several nuggets of what looked like high-grade, gold-bearing ore.

  “Where did you find it, Galbraith?” demanded Pope.

  “Go…to…hell,” Galbraith grunted through his bloody teeth.

  Pope screamed, put his six-gun to Galbraith’s forehead, and blew his brains out.


  Landreth cried aloud at the sudden death, only because it was a loss of where the two men had found the ore.

  Pope, waved his six-gun about and shouted, “Davison, you test that ore right now!”

  Davison got his acids and blow pipe together. He fumbled a few times, nervous at Pope’s volatile temper but Landreth seemed to calm things down just a shade. When he had all the equipment ready he tested the samples. He glanced about the firelight and saw Warner or Rockwell or whomever he was, watching. Rockwell gave a subtle sign for ‘no good.’ He sloshed the ore in his beaker and stared into it longer with the firelight than necessary trying to work up the courage to say the lie he had rehearsed. “It’s no good.”

  “What?” snapped Pope.

  “It’s just iron pyrite.”

  Pope looked confused.

  “You know fool’s gold. It’s worthless.”

  Pope’s eyes narrowed into a twisted evil leer. He knew Davison was lying. “You sum bitch!” Pope’s hand went for his gun.

  Davison would never forget that lightning flash in the dark against the gloomy firelight. Pope was drawing his gun. It was halfway out of his holster. He was so fast. But the thunder rolled and a six-gun serenade broke out into the most barbaric song ever heard in those parts.

  Landreth yelled. Roberts ducked for cover. Echo and Mozzy started shooting. The twins pulled their guns, and the remaining bloodthirsty gunmen drew theirs and started shooting.

  Rockwell had shot Pope dead, and now the others joined in with their own instruments, dealing death and adding to the grim song.

  It took Davison a moment to know what to do, he was no gunman, he was a school teacher, caught in the center of a sudden war; but then he found the gun in his hand and he started firing at the gunmen across from him.

  Gun reports lit up the dark night, and men screamed as they bled and died. It was pure, blinding, deafening chaos. Lead flew in every direction and the suffocating blackness crept over them on swift dark wings.

  A shot meant for Davison, destroyed one of his blowpipes. But the destruction also brought realization. Davison picked up the ore samples and put them into his own pocket while simultaneously unloading all six shots from his gun in chaotic abandon at his foes.

  Now his gun was empty, he wasn’t prepared to reload, even though Rockwell had handed him a spare cylinder. He fumbled in his coat for the ammunition when a shadow cut him off from the firelight. It was Friday.

  “Goodbye Teach,” Friday said with an evil grin. He held his six-gun up to shoot Davison at point blank range in the head.

  Davison dropped the cylinder and muttered a final prayer.

  Arrows suddenly sprouted full bloom from Friday’s chest. He stared at them stupidly, as if he couldn’t understand where they could have possibly come from. Then he pitched forward on his face into the fire. It was suddenly all too obvious to discover the source of the arrows.

  War whoops sounded out from all sides as now the Utes invaded the cacophony. This was their land and no white man would be allowed to have the gold nor report back on its final resting place.

  In a panic, Davison tried to find his lost cylinder, but all his hands ran across was one of his blow pipes. Clutching that, he got up to run just as a Ute warrior split one of the gunman wide open with a tomahawk. Blood splashed across Davison.

  What motivated them to attack while this gunfight was happening Davison couldn’t begin to say. Bloodlust perhaps, or more likely, a sense to end the carnage immediately and return the land to peace and without any white men having the slightest inkling of where their sacred gold was located. The screams were nightmarish. The painted faces demonic and frightening. The tomahawk swings final.

  Davison did the only thing he could think of. He turned and ran. Mozzy was suddenly beside him and he shot over his shoulder, in the dark. They fled down the mountain like all the banshees of Hell were at their heels.

  A shotgun blast and a man’s tattered screams were heard far behind them as the maniacal preaching of Landreth testified one last time in a murderous call for blood and chaos.

  They kept moving until Mozzy went face first into Price, who had come running the other way upon hearing the shooting. Price had lost his rifle in the collision but quickly reached for his knife. Mozzy had also lost his weapon.

  Davison watched the moonlight shine on the naked blade as it lunged at his friend. He didn’t hold back. He let Price have it with the blowpipe right across the neck. The stunned man dropped to the ground. “Come on,” he shouted to Mozzy, helping him stand and run. “We gotta keep moving and get to the horses ahead of them.”

  “What about Roberts and Echo?”

  “They’re in God’s and Rockwell’s hands now.”

  They ran for what seemed miles. Finally, they found the horses, mounted, and spurred them homeward as fast as they could go.

  ***

  A day after getting home, Davison realized what sore shape he was in. Covered with bruises and cuts, he also had swollen hands and feet. He lay in bed for some time when he heard a familiar voice outside speaking with his wife.

  He struggled to get up and look. It was Rockwell.

  “Howdy,” said the gunslinger. “You made it. I wanted to check just in case I was to be the bearer of bad news. Glad I’m not.”

  “Thanks to you, I’m sure,” said Davison. “Forgive my question but how did you survive?”

  Rockwell shrugged. “It was a little hairy for a bit but I got your friend, Roberts out. Though he won’t ever be the same, he took a pretty bad shot to the groin. Don’t know how well he’ll make out yet. You were lucky. Take this to heart son, don’t ever go back there.”

  “But how did you come out unscathed from that gunfight and the Utes?”

  “Well, I’m not an easy man to kill, and I suppose I’ve got a little working knowledge of the language.”

  “Did any of the others make it?”

  Rockwell shook his head. “Let’s just say, you won’t be troubled by any of them ever again. It’s over.”

  Davison held up a finger, meaning hang on a minute. He returned with that sample of ore he had pocketed that night. “I did just what you said, told them it was worthless. But . . .”

  Rockwell grinned. “I know.”

  “But this is one of the purest nuggets I’ve ever seen. I figure I’m only alive because of you. I think you ought to have it.”

  “Thanks, but it isn’t necessary. You keep it and work on your land.”

  “But this must be worth a few hundred dollars at least,” sputtered Davison.

  “I’m sure it is,” said Rockwell, as he mounted his horse.

  Davison then saw that as Rockwell started riding away, he had a pair of mules loaded down with grim cargo, the bodies of Pope, Landreth, and the other outlaws.

  “As you can see, I’ve got the real reason I came,” Rockwell called over his shoulder. “And they’re worth more than three thousand dollars!”

  The End

  Six-Gun Serenade was originally released in the Hangmen and Bullets collection in the summer of 2016. I decided to go back and rewrite the thing from scratch. It is now at least twice as long a story and far better for it. Being confined to four thousand words gave you the same story arc but without the same depth or characterization.

  A number of details were missing that I think make the story much more fulfilling and enjoyable now, such as the actual references to Omar Khayyam, that the real life Landreth was inspired by. As I have just mentioned, this tale was inspired by real events in Utah from about a hundred years ago. That is a little later than when Porter was around but I don’t think that anything I used in the story was too far afield of what could have happened in Porter’s time. Enjoy this deluxe version of Six-Gun Serenade.

  Oh yeah, I riffed on a title of Robert E. Howard’s, another western entitled Sharps Serenade for this one; but the similarity—save in tone, ends there.

  ***

  This next pieceThe Money Light, was origi
nally written to be a part of my western ghost story collectionWhispers Out of the Dust but as I was finishing that piece up, I wasn’t sure that it was good enough to make the cut, that and I was shooting for a 200 page book and it put me over just a little – so it was removed. I decided to include it here as an extra or deleted scene in the tale of a haunted town, the now deceased St. Thomas, Nevada.

  Hope you enjoy it.

  The Money Light

  The pot that night in the Pontoon Saloon in Rioville was far too large for anybody’s comfort. Saul Reynolds stared a moment at his greasy cards. He took in the glare off Spooner’s glasses and the sweat beading on both Manfred’s narrow brow and Lily’s wide bosom. Paiute Pete had already folded but grinned like an idiot to see whose hand would triumph. The Deertick and Smiling Jack frowned but the Ferguson brothers downright glowered as if their whole lives up to this point had been for naught.

  Reynolds dropped his straight flush. “Call.”

  Spooner cursed in Gaelic, “Ciach ort!” throwing down his three of a kind. The others sighed aloud or grumbled.

  All except the Fergusons. Kenny Ferguson stood and tossed down his dead man’s hand. “You cheated. No one is as lucky as you,” he sneered, knocking over his chair. His brother Alex rose and flung back his coat, revealing a worn pearl-handled colt.

  Reynolds remained seated and stared them down with icy blue eyes, unflinching and hard. “Don’t. It’ll hurt,” he said, hardly above a whisper.

  Kenny Ferguson quivered, shaking his head. “Damn your reputation. I ain’t afraid of you.”

  Alex Ferguson agreed, saying, “We’ve killed better men than you for less. I say you’re a cheat!”

  “Nobody cheated,” said Reynolds.

  Spooner coughed and pointed at the floor. A few cards were laying beneath Reynolds boots.

  Alex’s eyes flared wild with rage, he drew his six-gun and fired, Kenny was right behind. Reynolds returned same as all the others dove for cover.

  Cards hung suspended like flies in amber. Five hornets of lead buzzed angrily across the oak table only to bury themselves in the stucco of the saloon walls; four went the other way, but they hit flesh and bone.