by Ralph Cotton
John Garlet sat staring blankly at the floor, his head in his hands.
“John,” said Cleary. He waited, got no response. “John,” he said again. “John,” he said a third time. When John looked up from his hands and back through the bars at him, Cleary said, “Can you get up, walk around some?”
“Where we going . . . ?” John asked as if in a dreamlike state.
Jesus . . .
Cutthroat Teddy even took it seriously, seeing that the outlaw had gained little ground toward reclaiming his senses.
“John, get up and walk around the cell some,” he said. Then he turned to Cleary as John struggled to his feet. “He was all right a minute ago,” he said in amazement.
“This ain’t a minute ago,” said Cleary. “This is now.”
“I’m over here,” John whispered for no reason at all, having staggered his way toward the rear window.
“We know that, John,” Cleary whispered. “Keep quiet.” He spoke with slow calm words, like a man hoping to steer a lunatic away from a high ledge. “See if you can wake your brothers, easy like—”
Cleary stopped short at the sight of a black silhouette blocking the moonlight at the rear window.
“Get back,” said a stiff voice from the darkness outside, “I blow these bars out.”
“Get back where?” John said dreamily. He looked baffled.
“No! No!” said Cleary, trying to shout in a whisper. “Not yet! Let us get ready!”
“Get down . . . ,” said the voice as if ignoring Cleary’s desperate pleading. “Here goes.”
“Wait! For God’s sake, wait! What’s wrong with you?” shouted Cleary, hearing the sudden sizzling sound of a wick burning outside the window. Seeing nothing would stop the sizzling wick, he shouted at John, throwing silence to the wind. “Get your brothers under the bunk! Get down yourself; take cover!” even as he spoke, he and Cutthroat Teddy flung themselves to the floor and belly-crawled under their bunks.
Cleary grabbed a thin straw mattress, pulled it under the bunk with him and hugged it to himself quickly. He drew a deep breath like a man going underwater and held it as the whole jail building seemed to jump a foot off the ground and hang there. Before squeezing his eyes shut he saw the world turn into a spinning, churning fireball. He heard a sound like cannon fire, and in the roar of it he felt a second blast, this one louder, harder.
In the midst of the two blasts he saw John Garlet fly away, spread-eagle on a section of bars that had ripped loose from between the two cells. He thought he caught a glimpse of the devil’s red-blue hand reach sidelong out of some netherworld and slap him out from under his bunk like a matron’s broom sweeping away a mouse. Behind the blast, the world slammed back into place with the breath of hell’s fire and brimstone.
• • •
In his hotel room a block away, the Ranger awakened fast and felt himself suspended in air for a split second. Then he felt himself and his bed jar back down onto the plank floor.
Dynamite . . . Jailbreak . . . Was that one blast or two? he asked himself as he batted sleep from his eyes.
Almost before the hotel had stopped trembling he rolled from the bedside to his feet. Grabbing his Colt, holster and all from the bedpost, he slung the gun belt over his shoulder and grabbed his trousers from a chair back. He stepped into his boots as he buttoned his fly. He stamped his boots into place and grabbed his Winchester rifle from against the wall on his way to the door. From the direction of the blasts came a relentless round of bullets exploding randomly.
On his way down the newly replaced steps to the hotel lobby, Sam saw men and women alike running along the hallway from their rooms in housecoats and slippers. The boards of the hallway floor were likewise new, still unpainted, having replaced the tread and risers left cracked and broken behind the hooves of Foz Garlet’s galloping horse.
Sam made it to the stairs ahead of the other awakened guests. He descended the stairs and was out the front door in the dirt street as the townsmen hurried here and there staring in disbelief at the black fire-streaked smoke boiling and billowing along the rooftops.
While men gathered to form a bucket brigade at the town’s water troughs, Sam ran up the street under a low looming cloud of smoke. From inside the smoke, bullets continued to explode. He crouched beside the town doctor who kneeled over Sheriff Schaffer lying prone in the dirt. Schaffer’s face was black; smoke curled from his scorched shirt.
“I’m all right, Ranger,” the sheriff said, gasping for breath.
“I’ve got him,” the doctor said, looking up at Sam. “Get the horses out of the barn!”
Sam looked around at the chaos growing along the street. Men and women ran back and forth. Bullets still exploded from within the black smoke; debris and bits of burning wood lay strewn everywhere. Following the doctor’s orders, Sam moved on through the smoke, seeing one of the outlaws, John Garlet, still lying spread-eagle, pinned to the ground by the section of ripped-out bars.
But he didn’t stop to check on the downed outlaw. Hearing the sound of whinnying and neighing coming from the direction of the livery barn, he hurried on through the smoke. But he didn’t have to turn the frightened animals loose. At an alleyway leading back to the barn, he heard the thunder of hooves running toward him and jumped aside just in time to see horses emerge from the roiling smoke. Like apparitions fleeing a nightmare, the animals raced past him, smoke gusting from their nostrils.
When he spotted his black-point dun running out of the smoke, he took a chance, leaped out, grabbed its mane with his left hand and swung up onto its back as the horse cut away from the others and turned onto the street. Feeling the weight, the sudden clutch of a human hand, the big copper dun tried slinging him off sideways. But Sam held fast, allowing the horse to buck and fight for a second. Then he settled it with a firm familiar hand, made it realize it was him, his feel, his touch, his weight and scent atop it.
“Easy, Copper, easy, boy . . . ,” he said, realizing from the graveled strain in his voice how badly the black smoke was getting to him. Beneath him the dun settled, grudgingly at first, careful not to be tricked. Sam, reaching farther up the dun’s neck, took another handful of mane and leveled the horse’s gait into a slower, waning pace, then down to a trot, the Ranger’s grip holding firm control.
As soon as the dun settled under him, Sam tapped his knees to its bare sides and set it at a run to the end of the street and back around to the livery barn. In front of the barn the smoke from the explosion had drifted away enough for him to look into the long empty barn and out the rear door into the purple night. He heard no whinnying, no neighing from within the smoke-streaked barn, and he knew the stalls were empty, or any horses still inside were dead.
Bullets continued exploding; a big explosion rose straight up inside the fiery smoke with a whistling sound that ended in an orange-red ball of fire high up the darkness. With another tap of his knees, Sam spun the dun and headed back to the gathering chaos on the dirt street. Smaller fires had already sprung up everywhere. Flames danced on bits of strewn debris along the street and alleyways. Townsmen called out to one another as they ran back and forth, some with buckets of water, others with shovels.
“This one’s alive, Dr. Croft!” Sam heard a man call out. The man stood holding the section of iron bars off John Garlet’s chest. The outlaw’s clothes emitted curls of smoke.
“Get the bars off him,” the doctor shouted, standing crouched, dragging the sheriff away by his shoulder.
Sam slid from his dun’s back beside an overturned buggy in the street. He took one of the loose buggy reins, hitched the dun and hurried over to help the doctor. The townsman standing over the outlaw struggled and managed to raise the section of iron bars and turn them over. He dropped the bars into the dirt.
The doctor and Sam kneeled over the smoldering, half-conscious sheriff. Pressing the end of a stethoscope to Schaffer’
s chest, the doctor listened intently. He turned his eyes up at the Ranger in relief.
“I think he’s going to be all right,” he commented. As some townsmen ran up to them, he said, “Our sheriff’s alive. Get him to my office. I’ll be right along.”
As the townsmen carried Schaffer away, the doctor hurried over and stooped down beside John Garlet. He raised Garlet’s hand and moved it back and forth slowly as if inspecting it. “Why was this man walking the street at this time of night?” he asked no one in particular.
“He was in the jail, Doctor,” Sam said. “There were five prisoners and a prospector in the cells.” As Sam spoke he looked over at the thick flame-streaked black smoke and where the new jail had stood. Bullets still exploded from the burning remnants of the mercantile store next door.
“I expect they’re all dead men now,” the doctor said. He laid Garlet’s limp hand down on his chest. “This one looks like he’s broken every bone in his body.” John Garlet lay flat in the dirt with the imprint of the bars stamped on him, head to toes.
As the doctor shook his head and stood up, his medical bag in hand, his stethoscope hanging around his neck, a voice up the street called out to him from in front of a burning building.
“Doc Croft, we need you here, quick!” the voice said.
The doctor clamped his black bag to his side with an elbow and gave one last look down at Garlet.
“Somebody get this one to my office, too,” he called out. He gave Sam a level gaze.
“I expect you’ll be the law here until our sheriff’s back on his feet?” he asked pointedly.
Sam looked off into the black smoke and fire still shrouding most on the long block of burning buildings, at bucket brigades hastily formed, made up of men and women alike who passed buckets of water from the water troughs along a row of waiting hands. In the street a half block away a fire wagon stood with its hose rolled into the smoke and flames. A townsman held the team of frightened fire wagon horses in place while two men worked frantically, turning the pump handle that fed water from the wagon’s supply tank.
“I’m here for as long as I’m needed, Doctor,” the Ranger said, the raging firelight glittering in his eyes. Even if the ones who’d blown up the jail were still alive and had made their getaway, he couldn’t leave here now. Rounding up the Golden Gang would have to wait, he told himself, seeing what destruction the pursuit of his prey had wrought upon this unsuspecting town.
• • •
Seven miles out of Midland, lying in the dirt beside a narrow creek, the six blackened and smoked outlaws dropped from their saddles and fell to the ground at the water’s edge. Jake Cleary coughed and hacked and spat up black-gray saliva. His hair had been singed from the front and both sides of his head. His eyebrows were missing. His beard was frayed and ragged. While his horse drank its fill, Jake stuck his blackened face down into the water and swished it around and raised it. He stared at the Bluebird three men down from him as the Indian cupped water to his face with both hands and washed black sweat from his cheeks.
“I want to kill this son of a bitch . . . worse than I’ve ever wanted to kill anybody in my life,” he wheezed in a broken voice. He stared hard at the Bluebird. “He’s come damn near . . . blowing us all to hell.” As he spoke he rubbed his bare hip where his gun would ordinarily be holstered. Unable to hear Cleary’s threats, the Bluebird didn’t even look around.
“Take it easy, Jake,” Prew Garlet said to the scorched and blackened gunman. “Nobody wants to kill him more than I do. I’ve got a brother missing back there.”
“I hate to tell you, Prew, but your brother John is dead,” Cleary said, his voice still raspy from smoke. “If he’s not, he’s wishing he was. Last thing I saw was him riding a piece of jail bars out through the front wall.” His words ended in a hard cough.
Foz and Tillman both raised their faces from the water at Cleary’s news. They looked at their brother Prew, then at the Bluebird. The Indian continued washing black sweat and grit from himself, not realizing he was the topic of bitter conversation.
“Don’t kill him,” Prew warned. “Brax wants him. Says the Bluebird here is the man to have with us if we need something blown up.”
“I can sure as hell believe that,” said Cleary with dark sarcasm.
“This Mex-Injun worked setting up explosives for mining companies blowing down whole mountains—learned to make his own dynamite from the South American Suala Soto. I expect you’ve heard of him.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Cutthroat Teddy, also in a raspy voice. “I’ve heard he’s dead—blew himself up somewhere.”
“Brax wants the Bluebird,” Prew said, “so we’re taking him to him.” He shook his head and added, “Anyway, what happened back there is the jail wall blew into the mercantile and the mercantile must have had lots of gunpowder on hand.”
“Maybe so,” Bonsell replied, “but the jail wall wouldn’t have blown into the mercantile if this fool hadn’t used so damn much explosive.”
“I don’t know how that happened,” said Prew, unable to deny it. “I think he doesn’t habla Ingles so good.” He looked over at the Bluebird and said, “Ain’t that right, Bird? You don’t understand English?”
The Bluebird didn’t even look around.
“Jesus . . . ,” said Cleary. “Now I think he’s just ignoring you.”
Foz wiped water from his blackened face and looked around at his brothers, Tillman and Prew.
“I don’t know if it’s the blast or that damned mescal, but I’m still not right in the head,” he said.
“There’re some would say you never have been, Foz,” Prew said, rising to his feet. “I heard all about that mescal. I even brought some along in case I want to see for myself how strong it is.”
“Don’t drink it, Prew,” Foz warned, also pushing himself to his feet. “It’s ruined me.”
“I won’t,” said Prew. “Not now anyway.”
Foz stared at Prew grimly and said, “I ain’t joking. There’s something wrong with that stuff.”
Prew gave his brother a dismissive chuff under his breath.
Cleary and Bonsell stood up, water running from their scorched faces.
“If that damned Ranger ain’t dead, he’s going to be after us,” said Bonsell.
“He won’t be for long,” said Prew. “There’re plenty of Golden Riders between here and Kane’s hideout. One of us will kill him before he gets too close. If not, Brax will stop his clock when he hears about him killing Cordy.” He turned to his horse and picked up its reins. The horse’s tail was frazzled and burnt on the ends. “Either way, Burrack is now just a killing waiting to happen.” He swung up into his saddle. The men swung up as well, except for the Bluebird who sat staring out across the night sky.
“Let’s go, Bluebird,” said Bonsell. Then he repeated himself in Spanish. Still, the Indian just sat staring. As Bonsell stepped his horse closer, the Bluebird saw the dark shadow of the animal stretch out on the water. Looking around he saw the men atop their horses, and stood up himself.
Bonsell looked at Prew and said, “Just one more hardheaded Injun is what I think.”
“Might be,” said Prew turning his horse away from the water toward the trail. “Let’s go get ourselves some guns and take the Bluebird to Kane’s hideout.” He nodded at the Bluebird’s bulging saddlebags. “I don’t like traveling with dynamite behind me.”
PART 2
Chapter 6
For three full weeks the Ranger kept the law in Midland Settlement while Sheriff Schaffer recuperated from his injuries—the burns, broken ribs and numerous cuts and contusions the explosion had inflicted on him. During that time, marshaling town law had not been difficult. The people of the settlement were too busy rebuilding their town to participate in the drunkenness and brawling that might ordinarily take up much of a sheriff’s time. It helped that for the first
week and a half the saloon itself had been closed for repairs, due to the domino effect the explosion had created racing along the main street.
“I don’t mind telling you, Ranger,” he said, “I’ll never sleep at my desk again—if I ever have another desk, that is.”
“You’ll have a desk, Sheriff,” Sam said. “I ordered you one up from Texas. Should be here in a month.”
“Obliged, Ranger,” said Schaffer. He sighed. “By my estimation, we lost a full third of our businesses right there,” he said, gesturing a bandaged forearm toward the new buildings under construction across the street from where they stood out front of the doctor’s office. “Not to mention my jail and office building,” he added. “When the jail blew, the explosion ripped through the mercantile stockroom. Smitty, the owner, said he had four and a half kegs of black powder stored there. That did it. We’re lucky we didn’t all land in Mexico.”
Sam only nodded, gazing along the row of unpainted flat-plank-and-adobe buildings. Almost miraculously, a band of Mexican adobe craftsmen had shown up from across the border and began constructing the structures with blocks made from mud mixed on-site in the charred, blackened earth.
“We only found one body sifting around the jail site,” Sam said, staring in that direction. “We’ll never know who it was—it could’ve been the prospector.”
“Could’ve been that they all blew into pieces and burned in the street,” Schaffer said, looking at the countless black charred spots on the wide dirt thoroughfare.
“Could be . . . ,” Sam replied deftly.
“But you don’t believe it?” said Schaffer.
“I can’t allow myself to,” Sam said, his thumb hooked in his gun belt. “Not just yet anyway. Besides, even if the Garlets and my prisoners are all dead, there’s still Braxton Kane. Still enough Golden Riders to keep me busy for a while.”
