by R. W. Stone
The bartender laughed loudly. “That’s a good one! Canned beer. Hah!”
I dropped a couple of coins on the bar top. “Until then, how about another mug?”
“Coming right up. Canned beer.” He chuckled again. “Got to remember that one.”
Off to my left, four men were playing poker, and in the far corner, an older cowboy in a cowhide vest was strumming a juice harp and tapping his foot to the tune. I had no idea what song he was playing, but he seemed happy. Happy? That set me to thinking. I decided that I too needed to get happy, so I downed a few more beers in quick succession, left the counter, and started stumbling around the saloon.
I didn’t harm anyone and didn’t knock over anything serious, but I wasn’t exactly steady on my feet, either. Sooner or later I bumped into one of the girls. I knew for sure who she was. Eileen looked just liked she did in the picture the sergeant had signed for me.
“Hey, watch out. You stepped on my foot,” she squealed.
I removed my hat in an exaggerated motion. “My sincerest apologies, my lady.” I replaced my hat after first removing the picture from the inside crown with my hidden hand. It was now secretly nestled in my palm.
“Please get away from me. You’re drunk.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Royce sliding his chair out as if he were about to rise. With my back to him, I grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Again, I deeply regret any inconvenience to you.” I quietly added,“Eileen,” and from underneath flipped the picture up into her hand. “May nothing but good fortune come to you from now on,” I added loudly.
I have to hand it to her, she didn’t even look down at her hand. I backed away and smiled. “Hope to see you again under better circumstances.” I winked and returned to the bar. Thankfully, Royce relaxed when I went back to nursing my drink.
I wasn’t worried about letting the cat out of the bag. If anyone were to find the picture that I had passed her, they would assume it was nothing important. Even if she had previously been searched, they would probably just think it was something they had missed. Eileen, however, would understand, especially since her brother’s name was on the back. It wasn’t written down, but she would surely get the message: Help is on the way. Now the only problem I faced was figuring out how the hell that help would arrive. Well, maybe not the only problem.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After an appropriate amount of time had been wasted at the bar, I finally stumbled over to the door. Turning to the table where Hank and Royce were seated, I slurred my speech slightly. “Tents behind the Avery? Hardware, right?”
Hank smiled and shook his head. “Curly Avery. Behind the Armory and Hardware store.”
“Right, Avery … Armory,” I said, staggering out of the saloon.
Once outside, I straightened up and took a couple of deep breaths. I don’t know if it was more to clear my head of the beer or to get the stench of that place out of my lungs.
I walked slowly toward the hardware store. It was across the street, and on my way there, I continued planning a way out of this mess. My first impulse had been to grab a couple of horses and somehow race out of town. Now I realized that would never work out. With such a large group of outlaws chasing us, it was a sure bet I wouldn’t get very far with those women in tow. We would also need supplies for the trail, and that meant overloading the pack mule, which would also slow us down.
Putting two and two together, the problem was simple. The answer wouldn’t be. First, I had to find a way to get the women alone and then steal them away, sight unseen. Then, we had to ride away with enough supplies for the group. I figured at least a five-day ride, and I didn’t know how well or even if these women could ride. It soon became apparent that I’d need a wagon, but that meant traveling slower and leaving a bigger and more obvious trail for the men who would be following us at a gallop.
I was still dealing with those concerns when I entered the hardware store. It was fairly spacious for a log cabin and had quite an impressive assortment of supplies on its shelves. The rifle rack sported a wide variety of weapons. In the corner near the potbellied stove, two men were seated at a small table, playing checkers.
“One of you Avery?” I asked.
A bald-headed man looked up and took a corncob pipe from his mouth. “Yeah, I am. Whatcha want?”
I exaggerated the facts a bit. “Hank sent me over here. Said for you to fix me up with a tent.”
Curly looked me over. “That so? You know Hank Thompson?”
“We go back some,” I lied. “You got any accommodations available?”
“You got any money?” he asked
“Enough for a lousy tent and cot. You gonna play games all day, or do I get a room?”
“Hold your horses.” Curly started to rise. “You’ll get one if Thompson says so, but my stuff ain’t lousy.”
“Better not be,” I grumbled. “Say, this place is pretty well stocked for being so far out of the way,” I said as I looked the store over again.
“We make out all right,” Curly’s friend said.
“Damn, will ya look at all this. Canned fruit, a stove, bridle headstalls, reins and bits, gunpowder barrels, clothing. Quite an assorted stock,” I said casually. It went without saying most of it was probably stolen. “How the hell did you manage to get all this through the pass, so far out in the territory? Even my mule couldn’t haul it.”
“We have a Conestoga, a light buckboard, and an old stagecoach out back that we use to bring in supplies from time to time,” Curly explained.
The women had been brought all that way here into town by wagon. Made sense to consider using one for the same thing, only in the opposite direction.
“Interesting. So if I were to decide to stay here but needed to go back for the rest of my necessities, would you rent me one?”
“One of the wagons? Nope. See, the way it usually works, anything you don’t carry in, you buy here.”
That rule meant I’d have to plan on taking one by stealth or force. Neither option appealed to me.
“Right,” I said. “Had to ask anyway. Now about that tent?”
After paying Curly for three days up front, he went outside and pointed out the tent I was assigned to.
“Thanks. I’ll go get my bedroll at the livery and be back.”
“Suit yourself, I ain’t your pa,” Curly replied, putting the pipe back in his mouth. I turned my back on him and returned to the livery.
“Just getting my bedroll,” I told the liveryman. His name was Craig Phelps, and I later learned he was wanted for backstabbing a friend in Abilene after losing to him in a poker game. Phelps had lived here for the past three years, running his livery with stolen horses.
“Where’d you put my tack?” I asked.
Phelps indicated a small room in back of his shed, and while I was pretending to straighten up my duffel, I located a couple of harnesses that could be used on a wagon, if and when the time came. Even with my big mule, I would need at least two horses to pull a wagon over hard terrain with four other passengers. I shook my head. Mulling it over, I also realized that once it was discovered that the women were gone, whoever came after us would be riding hard and fast. One wagon carrying that many wouldn’t get very far. I knew I’d have to think of something else to stop those pursuers dead in their tracks. I was worn out and decided to sleep on it.
I threw my bedroll and saddlebags over my shoulders and went back to my tent. As much as I wanted to get this mission over with quickly, I knew that it wouldn’t be smart to start sneaking around so soon after arriving in town. Getting caught snooping around at night would create far too much suspicion.
As I threw myself down on the cot, I realized that tomorrow didn’t promise to be an easier day. All things considered, when you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you are within a shadow’s length of death.
In the army, Colonel Grierson had taught me the basic steps to carrying out a military operation successfully. First, the commander in charge had to have intelligence and not just the brainy smart kind. By “intelligence” the colonel meant finding out as much information as you can about the enemy. You have to consider things like the number of enemy troops, how they are positioned, how many supplies they have, and their plan of attack. All these are described as intelligence information.
This sort of informative detail was often obtained by scouting, by interrogating captive prisoners, or by utilizing spies. I had scouted out part of the town, but there was still much to see and learn. I had no spies with me, but if I could somehow manage to get the women alone, I was sure they would provide me with additional information about the goings-on here in Broken Willow.
The next step was to ready your men for the mission. This meant arming them and making sure they were well supplied with food, water, clothing, and ammunition. I knew now that I would need a wagon to carry out our escape. I figured I’d simply pack in whatever supplies I could round up and then pile everyone and everything in the back. What I would need besides the wagon were extra horses or mules to pull it. How to get them was still an unknown factor. Then, I would have to deal with the pursuers.
If I learned anything from Grierson’s raid, it was to do the unexpected. So far I was not under suspicion and was relatively free to come and go. It was obvious that the women were a prize possession, but I didn’t believe they would be heavily guarded since they had nowhere to go for help. Unfortunately, at this point I could see nothing clever about simply racing through the pass and making for safety in a wagon. Nope, I would need an ace in the hole to pull off something unexpected.
I left my tent, but the thought of returning to Sally’s for breakfast turned my stomach, so I walked into the hardware store. Curly was nowhere to be found, but the other fellow was. He was middle-aged and wore a pair of small spectacles.
“Any coffee to be had?” I asked.
“Over on the stove,” he replied. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks … er …?” I hesitated.
“Just call me Flip,” he replied, wiping down the counter with a dirty rag.
I poured myself some hot coffee into one of the tin cups that were hanging on a peg next to the stove. “Not bad. Much obliged … Flip.” I walked around the store, picking up and inspecting assorted items, and slowly nursed the coffee.
Near the back door, I noticed an old packsaddle. “Hey, this might come in handy for my mule,” I said, lying through my teeth. “Let me get in here and get a better look.” I had to move the gunpowder barrels out of the way in order to take a closer look. They were what I was really interested in, so I shoved them over near the doorway. I turned the saddle over and shook my head.
“Interested?” the shopkeeper asked.
“Close, but no ceegar,” I replied. “Too much rot in the rawhide. Let’s see what else you got. Don’t mind, do ya?”
“That’s what it’s here for,” he answered.
“Might be able to use this lariat,” I commented, picking up a length of rope.
“Sorry, but that’s not a lariat,” Flip explained. “It’s blasting line. Primer cord. Miners use it to time their charges.
“Oh, thanks, anyway.” I tossed the curled rope over on top of the powder barrels. I picked up a large pocket knife I didn’t need and put five canteens on the counter.
“You planning on riding through Death Valley?” Flip asked.
I laughed overly hard and shook my head. “Nah, nothing like that. It’s just that on one job, the damn posse put a round through my water bag. Since then I don’t take any chances. Besides, I always carry an extra one for refreshment other than water, if you know what I mean.”
Flip smiled. “For that you’d have to go over to the saloon. Hank don’t cotton much to competition, and I gotta pay a percentage to him and Royce as it is.”
“Sweet set-up they got here,” I commented, while pouring myself another cup of coffee. It really was pretty good. Besides, gathering intelligence and killing time were often the same thing. As it was, I needed to wait till later to get close to the women.
“Known Hank and Royce long?” I asked.
The shopkeeper shook his head. “I showed up about two years ago, and they were already here. Fact is, I don’t really know how long they’ve been around.”
“So they get a cut of everything that goes on around here?”
Flip nodded. “That Hank, he’s a sharp one. I’m no stranger to the Owl Hoot Trail, and I’ve seen many come and go in my time, but Thompson’s as slick as they come. Got a mean streak as well, but he don’t show it often. The other one …”
“Royce?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Royce Dunbar. Now he’s a piece of work, too. As fast on the draw as I’ve ever seen and someone to watch out for. He can be downright ruthless, if the need be.”
“And Henry Thompson determines when the need be?”
“Right. Some of those setting up business in Broken Willow thought they was pretty tough, too, but any that objected to Hank’s percentage didn’t live long. Hell’s bells, when they went up against Thompson and Dunbar, they didn’t live long enough to say … ‘Davy Crockett at the Alamo.’ And it warn’t purty, either.”
“I’ll have to remember that.” An idea came to me, so I decided to lay the groundwork. “I was thinking I might settle down here where no lawman can reach me. Maybe bring in a couple of gaming tables, roulette wheels, and the like. I know where some is stashed. I’d need a wagon, though.”
“I don’t know. You might make a go of it. Don’t know about the wagon. Have to think it over. Talk to Curly maybe.”
“Well, you do that. Think it over and let me know. Till then I’ll just check out the competition. Keep it to yourself, would ya?”
“Sure thing. Don’t hurt to consider possibilities.”
“Never does. Thanks again for the coffee,” I added as I went outside.
I began to explore the town. It was built in a horseshoe shape with the open end facing the pass. At the closed end of the horseshoe was the livery. Many of the buildings were unmarked, but here and there I noticed signs indicating a blacksmith, a barber who doubled as a dentist, and the leather smith shop.
The saloon was open, but I doubted the women would be there this early, and I didn’t want to be too obvious. I was still trying my best to plan my way out of town in such a way as not to get captured, maimed, or killed. So far the odds were all against my getting even close to pulling that off.
By now I knew our escape route would have to be a retreat back through the pass. I studied the valley beyond Broken Willow and realized there was no way out and no safe haven anywhere in that direction.
For a while I had considered stampeding the outlaws’ horses in order to gain enough time to make our escape and cover our tracks, but it soon became obvious to me that wouldn’t work at all. The majority of the horses were scattered all around the camp. Some were tied to hitching rails, some were in the corral next to the livery, while others grazed in the pasture out in the valley behind the town. They were never all together.
No matter how we sneaked through the pass, there would always be enough horses to chase us down, and I still couldn’t be sure all the girls knew how to ride well enough to outrun those who might pursue us.
I knew I could trail the mule fast enough, but loading him down with enough supplies for all of us to get back to safety was going to be a close call. The more I thought about it, the more sense using a wagon made. Unfortunately, I also realized it would slow us down so much, I would have to make some sort of allowance to prevent us from being overtaken.
I considered the guards at the pass, but it stood to reason they would only worry about men who were entering. They were
put there to prevent lawmen from penetrating the pass, so why would they worry about anyone who was leaving? Unless, of course, they spotted the women. Then they would know for sure something was wrong. It was a sure bet that they knew the plan was to keep those girls in town for good. That would be a problem if the women were spotted. The more I thought about it, the more complicated it all became.
Eventually I wandered over to the Watering Hole Saloon and went in. It was still too early in the day for a drink, even for me. The girls were nowhere in sight, so I looked around for a way to blend in and pass the time. At one of the tables off to the right, a poker game was in play, so I went over to see if I could get in on it.
“Private game or can any loser join?” I asked.
One of the players was an old man with a long gray beard, wearing a patch over his left eye. Even without memorizing all the wanted posters going back to the beginning of time, I knew immediately the man was Barney Blake. Lawmen had been talking about him and his eye patch for years. It had a single diamond right in the middle for decoration. Blake was wanted in several states for cattle rustling, murder, and other assorted crimes. Some of the crimes went back years. It seemed to me that, aside from the kidnapped women, there wasn’t a single person in this godforsaken place who was worth a plugged nickel.
“Always can use some fresh blood in the game,” another of the players replied. “Pull up a chair and make yourself comfortable.”
After quickly catching up on the table rules, I put some coin down in front of me and anted up. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of claiming I’d need to buy or borrow a wagon in order to bring in gambling tables. It would appeal to the nature of the town’s inhabitants and made enough sense to be believable. I would, however, need to present myself as someone with decent gambling abilities. Fortunately, once again I had Sergeant Hackworth to thank for schooling me.
Sarge didn’t get to be top dog in the army without learning how to play cards, and after he retired to our ranch, we passed many a night playing poker. He soon taught me how to recognize a bottom deal, how to mark cards, and how to spot things like mirrored rings and sleeve devices for throwing cards.
