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Taggart's Crossing

Page 2

by Paul Bedford


  The two men regarded him warily. Hideout weapons were always unpredictable. The bearded one forced a smile. ‘Hell, we ain’t looking for trouble, friend. Just thought to bring you some ferrying business, is all.’

  Taggart returned the smile, but it completely failed to reach his eyes. ‘The crossing’ll cost you one shiny silver dollar apiece. The horses and mules go free, on account of they don’t cuss and cause trouble like human folks.’

  The other man’s apparent good cheer fled as he digested the cost. ‘Sweet Jesus! Two dollars! That’s daylight robbery. Most other crossing’s are twenty cents.’

  Taggart nodded. ‘Aha. You’re right on both counts. But since anyone wanting to cross over into the Indian Territories is likely to be on the run from something, I reckon it’s a price worth paying. Especially as this is the only ferry along this stretch of water.’

  The two strangers more or less simultaneously spat out their plugs of tobacco and then stared hard at each other. Whatever passed between them served its purpose, because they nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Good for you,’ Taggart remarked brightly. ‘Now you hand your coin over to Jacob. He’s the fella with only one arm you were visiting with. Then just mosey on over to the ferry. I’ll be there in a moment.’ With that, he swiftly backed off into the gloom of the interior.

  The two fugitives, because that was surely what they were, glowered at the abruptly empty threshold and then grudgingly handed over their money.

  ‘You and I aren’t through yet,’ muttered the scrawny one darkly, before urging his horse over to the timber landing stage.

  Keeping his distance from them, Jacob hurried over to remove the single pole that barred entry to the ferry. Although missing a limb, he tucked the barrier in the crook of his arm and effortlessly slid it to one side. The craft was well weathered, but strongly constructed and for the past six years had been easily capable of transporting even the heavily laden wagons that occasionally made the crossing. It had been painstakingly assembled during the summer of 1870, using two layers of fashioned tree trunks roped together at right angles. The deck planking had been brought by wagon all the way from a sawmill in Wichita, a good day’s ride to the north. More rough-cut timber had then been used to build two solid sidewalls.

  A single massive rope cable stretched from bank to bank. It was fed through a series of iron pulleys, which kept it firmly anchored to one side of the ferry, whilst at the same time allowed the operators to haul on it. On the northern, Kansas side, the cable was secured to a large beech tree, whilst to the south a huge boulder had been utilized. Once across, most people considered themselves to be in the Cherokee Nation and beyond the law’s reach, but in fact were actually still in the United States proper.

  Staying well away from the now dismounted passengers as they led their four animals aboard, Jacob removed a single leather glove from his pocket and using his teeth, deftly slipped it over his hand. As though assessing their future, the two men gazed keenly over at the far bank and so failed to observe the powerful figure of John Taggart, as he emerged from the cabin and strode over to the waiting ferry. Under one arm he carried a short blanket roll that seemed incongruous on such a warm summer’s day. As his heavy footsteps sounded on the planking, his customers turned and glanced curiously at the bundle as he placed it on the deck.

  ‘Day like this, I owe it to myself to stretch out under the sun over there,’ he remarked casually and then nodded at his companion. With practised ease, the two men soon had the craft scudding across the fast flowing river. It was obvious to anyone who cared to watch that John was doing most of the work. His powerful shoulders bulged under the light cotton shirt and even with the gentle breeze beads of sweat soon formed on his face.

  In spite of himself, the bearded man couldn’t help but be impressed. ‘Seems like you could handle this all on your lonesome,’ he remarked with a scornful glance over at Jacob.

  John glanced at him with eyes that were like chips of ice, before abruptly letting go of the cable and stalking over to his rolled blanket. With progress noticeably slowing, the two passengers watched with surprise, but no apparent alarm, as he reached down to retrieve something from the folds of material. Nothing could have prepared them for the sudden appearance of a cut down twelve-gauge shotgun, as John retracted both hammers and pointed the gaping muzzles directly at them. Even the stock had been removed; leaving just a stubby grip that seemed somehow to emphasize the weapon’s lethal nature.

  ‘The cartridges in this crowd pleaser are my own loads,’ he conversationally announced. ‘They’re full of rusting off cuts from back when we built the cabin. If they don’t kill you straight away, they’ll sure as hell infect the wound.’

  It was the scrawny individual who recovered first. ‘Sweet Jesus, mister. We done paid the fare. Ask him. He’ll tell you.’

  ‘This ain’t about money, you son of a bitch. I’m no road agent. Jacob is my friend. He saved my life in that same war you were jawing about. You treated him like shit and now you’re going to pay.’

  The other man’s eyes widened like saucers. ‘For Christ’s sake, we didn’t mean anything by it. We were just funning, is all.’

  ‘Well he didn’t look amused to me.’ John’s voice momentarily softened. ‘Were you, Jacob?’

  His friend appeared dumbstruck at the turn of events and merely shook his head silently.

  John’s eyes bored into his two prisoners. ‘And if you slack jawed faggots had had any schooling, you’d know that the Mason–Dixon Line is a good piece to the north and east of here, which means that most anybody living around these parts are likely to have supported the Confederacy. So what you’re going to do,’ the big man continued remorselessly, ‘Is unbuckle those gun belts and then toss them and all your shooting irons overboard. That way you won’t be threatening any more innocent folks for a while.’

  The two seedy looking outlaws were horrified. ‘You can’t send us down into the Territories without any firearms. We’ve got business to attend to with some real touchy folks. We’ll end up dead as a wagon tyre.’

  John’s grim expression offered them not so much as a crumb of comfort. ‘Maybe you will and maybe you won’t, but you should have thought about that before picking on my friend. Now do it or get to dying!’

  The men’s features registered bitter loathing, but they knew better than to argue with a levelled sawn-off. Slowly and very reluctantly they pitched their weapons into the Arkansas River. First went the holster guns and then the rifles. Their weight ensured that they would sink straight to the bottom.

  ‘You can keep your knives for whittling and such,’ John remarked, ‘But I’ll be having the hide-outs.’

  Their expressions darkened even more, as the contents of two shoulder holsters were surrendered to the water. Only then did their persecutor nod to Jacob. ‘You can ease us into the bank now and then these gentlemen can be on their way. I reckon this is one ride they won’t forget in a hurry.’

  Moments later, the two men were leading their horses and mules off the ferry. Once mounted and on the move, their courage rapidly returned. ‘You’ll pay for this in spades, you bastards,’ snarled the smaller of the two. ‘Just see if you don’t. We’ll be back here one day, when you least expect it.’

  John carefully lowered the hammers on his shotgun. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he hollered back. ‘We’re always open for business. And just so as you know, this place is called Taggart’s Crossing.’

  ‘I never knew that,’ Jacob innocently remarked, no longer tongue tied now that the outlaws had departed.

  ‘Well then, it just goes to show that you learn something everyday,’ John replied with a broad smile. ‘And what those fellows learned is that nobody messes with John Taggart.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘How do you know they’ll chase us?’

  Russ Decker sighed impatiently. A big, bluff individual, he possessed a sharp mind and did not suffer fools gladly. He well knew that not all t
he members of his gang were playing with a full deck, but he endured their presence because someone had to make up the numbers.

  ‘Because this town’s booming,’ he quickly responded. ‘Just like any cowtown situated on a railhead. It’s awash with money. Which means the banks have lots of cash in them and the good citizens ain’t going to like us taking it. That’s why I’ve got a plan for afterwards.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell us?’ whined the third man.

  ‘No, Brett. I ain’t,’ Decker responded emphatically. ‘Because if I told you everything up front, you’d get to thinking you didn’t need me anymore. But you’d be sorely wrong!’

  The three horsemen had just crossed over the tracks of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, at the point where the well used rails swept into the northern end of town. Stockyards full of lowing beasts dominated the area, reinforcing that fact that this was definitely cattle country. Wichita, Kansas was the county seat of Sedgwick County and a substantial settlement. It possessed a fine red brick courthouse, a United States Land Office and various newspaper offices. The buildings had an air of permanence about them, with a good many being built from brick and native limestone. All of this hinted at affluence and such circumstances would always attract undesirables. Which, of course, was exactly what the newcomers were.

  The men deliberately maintained an unhurried pace, as they made their way onto the start of Santa Fe Street. They all wore duster coats, which had once been white but were now yellowed by age and usage. The warm dry weather ensured that they were uncomfortable, but the coats concealed an unusual amount of weaponry carried by supposedly innocent visitors. Split up the back to hip level for use on horseback, they also enabled the wearer to draw a holstered weapon with ease.

  As they plodded along, Decker suddenly favoured an ancient citizen with a beaming smile. The old man was passing time on a porch stoop and had no inkling that the affable greeting was actually a display of relief. The lead horseman had just spotted three more men wearing identical garb, who had just come into view at the far end of the long thoroughfare. In his heart, he had known that Lansing wouldn’t mess up, but there was always a first time for everything.

  ‘Remember,’ he ordered softly. ‘You two hitch your animals opposite the bank and make out you’re having trouble with a cinch or something. No shooting unless someone else starts it. I want dollars, not deaths!’

  His two companions grunted. They were going on a bank robbery, not a church social. If anyone got in their way, there would have to be some blood spilt and from past experience, their boss was more than willing to take a life.

  Down the street, Mark Lansing had just given similar instructions to his men, but he was pragmatic enough to recognize that in the heat of the moment things could simply just happen. Lean and angular, with sideburns and a luxuriant moustache, he was in effect Decker’s right-hand-man and no stranger to bloody violence. But that didn’t mean he took any pleasure in it. In fact, of late, his enthusiasm for life on the dodge had waned considerably. The years of hard living were weighing heavily on him and he was feeling distinctly world-weary.

  The two groups finally reined in at staggered intervals opposite the Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank; two men directly outside and four at the far side of the wide dirt street. The bank’s premises were in an imposing two-storey structure built of red brick. To the eager eyes of the new arrivals it held a great deal of promise.

  Decker and Lansing nodded genially at each other, as though they were associates meeting to conduct business. Next they glanced seemingly casually around, checking rooftops and shop fronts for any sign of ambush. Wichita’s citizens appeared to be going about their daily lives without any apparent concern, but Decker was keen to get off the street. He was well aware that sooner or later, six men in identical duster coats would attract attention.

  ‘Let’s get this done,’ he remarked and headed for the entrance. His left hand, inserted into a non-existent coat pocket, clutched the fore stock of a sawn-off shotgun.

  The two men, spurs clinking noisily, strode across the timbered sidewalk and through the open double doors. Conveniently, there was only one other customer in the place. Wearing an apron and exchanging notes for coins, he was obviously a storekeeper of some kind.

  The interior was spacious and inviting. Varnished floorboards gleamed like the highly polished counter, which effectively split the ground floor into two halves. The counter was roughly waist-high, but above it a wire mesh structure reached up another three feet. This made for some imposing height, but had little chance of stopping a bullet. An access door, for those clients who warranted greater attention, was situated to the side of the teller positions. Beyond those lay various desks manned by men in store-bought suits. Up against the back wall stood the largest iron safe that either of them had ever seen. With only one visible armed guard, it was going to be like taking candy from a baby.

  That individual, large and capable looking, was leaning against the right hand wall with a Winchester cradled in the crook of his left arm. As the two travel-stained customers clanked into the room, he scrutinized them carefully. They were obviously from out of town and that in itself made them worth a second look. Unfortunately for the bank employee, he was just one man unknowingly confronted by a pair of hardened professionals.

  Decker nodded to his accomplice and then made directly for the nearest teller. Lansing veered off to the right, ostensibly to fill out a deposit slip on one of the tables near the guard. Decker’s right hand slipped inside his open coat and that action was enough to abruptly claim all the sentinel’s attention. Instinctively pulling clear of the wall, that man unwittingly left himself open and the other bank robber took full advantage.

  Lansing’s hand deftly slipped through the rear slit of his duster, seized the Remington around its cylinder and with a sweeping motion brought the butt crashing down onto an unprotected skull. With a shuddering sigh, the luckless guard toppled to the floor and lay still. Even as he did so, Decker drew his own revolver and pointed it directly at the startled face of the nearest teller. He kept his voice low, but it positively dripped menace.

  ‘Unless you want your brains all over this shiny counter, keep your hands in sight and open the God damn door!’

  Simultaneously, Lansing cocked and pointed his weapon at the storekeeper and barked out, ‘Get on the floor and sit on your hands, now!’

  Eyes wide with shock, the man did exactly that and the bank employee hesitated for only a moment before following Decker’s instructions. As the bolt slid back, the outlaw stepped onto the bank’s hallowed ground and gazed around at the horrified staff. There appeared to be some kind of manager clad in a sharp suit and three tellers, all apparently unarmed.

  ‘Let’s make this easy,’ the gunman growled. ‘I only want the bank’s money, not yours. So none of this is worth dying for.’ He glanced round as two of his gang entered the premises carrying canvas bags. ‘Empty the cash drawers first,’ he barked out. ‘Paper money only.’

  As the men complied, he holstered his revolver and replaced it with the sawn-off shotgun from under his coat. The portly manager’s eyes boggled, as the gaping muzzles swung over to cover him. ‘Please don’t hurt me!’ he gasped out.

  Decker favoured him with a cold smile. ‘Just open the safe,’ he commanded.

  The other man visibly trembled with fear and words came in a flood. ‘I can’t. I haven’t got a key. Only the president, Mister A.W. Clark has one and he’s out of town. We’ve been robbed before, so we normally only keep enough cash in the drawers for the one day. Because he’s away for a few days, there’s a lot more than usual under the counter, so you’re in luck. Please, mister. Don’t shoot. It’s the God’s honest truth. I wasn’t raised to lie!’

  Decker stared at him long and hard. He came to a decision just as one of his men snarled, ‘The son of a bitch is lying, boss. Blow one of his fingers off. That’ll get the safe open quick enough.’

  The outlaw leader
shook his head dismissively. ‘Nah, I reckon he’s telling the truth. You ought to try it sometime.’

  That short exchange resulted in an unexpected bonus. The manager’s relief was plain to see. Completely overcome, he uttered a massive sigh and without warning his legs gave way. As he collapsed to the floor, the poor man pointed at a dull green strongbox half hidden under the counter. ‘I haven’t got the key for that either, but just take it and go!’

  Decker’s eyes lit up with pure avarice. He recognised a Wells Fargo cashbox when he saw one. The ubiquitous freight company used them to transfer valuables from town to town by stagecoach. The padlock on this one was massive. It would require a blacksmith’s tools to remove it. Moving fast, he seized the box with one hand. He grunted with the effort required to lift it and then smiled broadly. There was an awful lot of something inside. His men had cleared the drawers. It was time to leave. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ he barked. With that, the three of them swept through the door in the counter and it was about then that everything started to unravel.

  Lansing glanced dubiously at the strongbox. He too knew whom it belonged to. ‘For God’s sake, Russ. That thing’ll be more trouble than a sack full of rattlesnakes. Dump it and let’s go!’

  Decker shook his head stubbornly. ‘I believe in money, not God. You know that. Besides, this thing is heavy. Real heavy! Which means our luck has changed and since our bullets won’t break that shackle, it’s coming with us.’

  At that moment, a customer with cash to deposit appeared in the doorway. He was a hard-bitten ex-army type, who immediately recognized trouble and thought he could handle it. No ‘saddle tramps’ were going to take his money. By reaching for the gun at his waist, he left the outlaws no option.

  Josh, the gang member who had been so keen to spill some blood, fired first, followed swiftly by Mark Lansing. With two bullets lodged in his chest, the new arrival staggered back onto the boardwalk and reflexively discharged his revolver into the timber. He was dead before he hit the ground and lay there wreathed in smoke, blood soaking into his jacket. With one man slain, the outlaws recognized that it no longer mattered how many more died in Wichita. Their own survival was now the only concern.

 

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