Taggart's Crossing

by Paul Bedford

  The sudden outbreak of bloody violence galvanized all six bank robbers into action. The two on the far side of the street quickly mounted up and drew their weapons. They knew that the best way to get out of town alive was to intimidate the citizens by a show of force. Accordingly, they urged their horses into motion and began shooting at windows and into the air. Screams joined the deafening crash of firearms and shattering glass, as the townsfolk desperately rushed to get off the street without being either shot or trampled.

  Town Marshal Todd Turner’s substantial frame was comfortably settled in his usual chair at the barber’s. He was a man whose responsibilities of office weighed lightly upon him. A creature of habit, he always arrived for his morning shave at the same time. The white lather had just nicely coated his stubble when the first shots rang out.

  ‘Aw hell,’ he complained. ‘Why did someone have to go and do that?’

  Then the firing started in earnest and he was out of his chair and heading for the door. The lawman yanked it open just as one of the duster clad riders galloped past. A heavy bullet smashed into the doorframe next to his head, sending a wicked splinter slicing into his left cheek. Howling with pain, he leapt back into the shop and slammed the door shut. His revolver had not even left its holster and he was already out of the fight. Locking up drunken trailhands at one dollar each arrest was one thing, but a deadly shooting match entirely another.

  As Santa Fe Street cleared of traffic, Decker yelled at his friend and sidekick. ‘Help me rope this damn thing to the saddle.’

  The horses, stirred up by the shooting, were tugging against their tethered reins. The two mounted outlaws were careering about the dirt street, screaming abuse and firing indiscriminately. And yet, in spite of the urgency, Lansing held off. ‘No good will come of taking it.’ He gestured behind him. ‘That’s just one bank amongst many, but this box represents so much more. Take my advice and leave it, or we’ll have all kinds of law after us!’

  Decker again shook his head obstinately. ‘Let them come. It’s a big country. Don’t you understand? We did good in there, but with this we’ll do better.’

  Across the street, a shot rang out and this time it wasn’t from one of his men. The town was starting to fight back. Another gun fired and a piece of the hitching rail disintegrated. Someone had got up onto a rooftop.

  Decker began to get well and truly angry. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mark, are you with me or agin me?’

  Lansing stared hard at him for a moment. Then one of their men cried out, ‘Shit in a bucket, fellas. We’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. Let’s move ass,’ and against his better judgment he grabbed the coil of rope from his saddle and helped his boss to secure the strongbox. It would very likely slow them down, but the die was cast and there was no going back. Just at that moment, as though emphasizing the fact, a vastly more potent rifle opened up.

  The bank robbers could not possibly have foreseen it, but there was another lawman in Wichita that day and he had far more on his mind than just a close shave. Deputy United States Marshal Sam Torrance had a wanted man locked up in the town jail. He was intending to leave very shortly to deliver him to Judge Parker’s Federal Court in Fort Smith. When the first shot rang out, the seasoned enforcer was draining his second cup of coffee in McCready’s Eating House. Well accustomed to the harsher aspects of upholding the law, he reached for the Winchester Model 1876 rifle that he habitually carried and strode to the door.

  Pounding hoofs and rapid gunfire supplied broad hints as to just what was afoot and the marshal was not a man to take unnecessary risks. Dropping onto his haunches, he levered up a powerful .45-.75 cartridge and carefully eased open the door. Out on the street there was mayhem, with men, women and children desperately running for cover to escape two rampaging gunmen in grubby duster coats. Four more of them were clustered over by the bank, apparently resolving some heated dispute. To the marshal’s logical mind, it seemed a hell of a place for an argument, but then there was just no accounting for some folk’s behaviour. Although sporadic shots rang out from the surrounding buildings, it was obvious that the town needed professional help.

  Instinctively aiming for a large target, Torrance rapidly drew a bead on the nearest marauder’s horse and fired. No one with his experience could have missed at such range and sure enough the unfortunate creature slewed sideways and crashed to the ground. Its rider, a vicious individual named Huey Soble, just managed to throw himself clear and athletically turned a bad fall into a controlled roll. Getting to his feet with surprising ease, the outlaw found that entirely by chance he was facing the eating house rather than his comrades. The lawman smiled grimly at what had surely been a waste of effort on his victim’s part and smoothly worked the lever action. Again he took aim, but this time at human prey.

  Even as his man ‘bit the dust’ to the sound of a much deeper discharge, Russ Decker recognized that the situation had abruptly changed. In that brief moment he saw it all. Only two kinds of men used such a powerful weapon, either buffalo hunters or man hunters. Odds on, they now had a proficient ‘law dog’ to contend with. Rapidly scanning the surrounding buildings, he spotted a rifle barrel poking through the threshold of McCready’s diagonally down the street. Quickly levelling his own shotgun, the outlaw leader squeezed both triggers a mere split-second before their opponent fired.

  With a sawn-off only really deadly at close range, the contents of the two twelve gauge cartridges acted as more of a deterrent. As the barrage of pellets spattered the front of the eating-house, only one actually struck Marshal Torrance, but that was enough to affect his aim. The small piece of lead tore through the left sleeve of his linen shirt, creating a minor flesh wound in his upper arm. The shock was enough to jerk the Winchester’s barrel to the right at the very instant that he fired.

  Soble, disorientated from the fall, had only just got to his feet when the bullet smashed into his left shoulder and sent him reeling backwards into the dust. This time it took him far longer to get up and when he did fresh blood stained his long coat.

  All the other men were now mounted and Decker bellowed at the one with the strongest animal. ‘Nobody gets left behind. Huey can ride double with you until we steal another horse.’

  As the powerfully mounted man raced off to comply, his cronies fired at anything that moved. The citizen on the roof showed himself once too often and Lansing shot him dead centre, bringing the unfortunate tumbling down to the sidewalk with bone-breaking force. Then all the raiders, including Soble, were in the saddle and without any further hindrance they galloped off, heading south. At Decker’s insistence, they made one brief stop at the blacksmith’s forge just inside the town’s limits, to relieve the angry tradesman of a large hammer. Then they were off again, six fugitives with blood on their hands.

  An eerie silence fell on Santa Fe Street, disturbed only by the pitiful whinnying of the mortally-wounded horse. As the small clouds of gun smoke gradually dispersed, so the people of Wichita cautiously reappeared. Sam Torrance hated unnecessary suffering and so resolutely approached the stricken beast. Carefully aiming his rifle at its head, he squeezed the trigger. As the loud report crashed out, there was momentary alarm that brought a cynical smile to the lawman’s weathered face.

  The Decker gang’s raid on the Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank had resulted in the deaths of at least two men and a great deal of broken glass. There had been robberies before, but this one had been bloodier than most. Another feature set this robbery apart – the Wells Fargo box; this contained US Mail, which meant that federal law had been broken. Like it or not, Marshal Torrance now had another duty to perform.

  Chapter Four

  ‘So what are your intentions?’

  Sam Torrance favoured Turner with a sidelong glance. He was not about to discuss his plans with some lily-livered town marshal. For all he knew the man might actually have been in on the raid and was now trading on the flesh wound to look good in front of the townspeople. Consequently he merely pointed dism
issively towards the prisoner languishing in one of the jail’s three cells.

  ‘I’m charged with delivering that sack of shit to Fort Smith, so that’s what I’m going to do. If I should happen to trip over a gang of bank robbers on the way, then I’ll arrest them, but it seems unlikely. They’ll be hotfooting it south to the Indian Territories, whereas I’m heading east.’

  There was a grating whine from the sour-looking character behind bars. ‘Aw, you shouldn’t ought to talk about me like that, marshal. I’ve got feelings too.’

  Torrance looked scathingly over at him. ‘Yeah and so had those young girls you kidnapped and sold on, you piss-streaked pile of puke!’

  Marshal Turner’s eyes widened at the sharp exchange. He would be damn glad to get both men off his premises. He was used to a quiet life and the presence of the federal officer uncomfortably reminded him of just how the law was supposed to be enforced.

  ‘So you’ll likely be leaving us soon,’ he remarked hopefully.

  The US Marshal chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Right this very minute, actually. That way you’ll be able to get on with raising a posse of your own, without my interference.’ As Wichita’s lawman coloured with embarrassment, he added, ‘And if that wound should happen to slow you down, I wouldn’t worry overmuch. After what’s happened here, you can bet your bottom dollar that the Pinkertons will be swarming all over this place mighty soon.’

  It wasn’t until later that afternoon that Jonas Bills realized he had been listening to a load of hogwash. ‘Hey, we ain’t travelling east at all. You was just joshing with that Wichita law-dog.’

  Marshal Torrance reluctantly switched his gaze from the terrain ahead and regarded his diminutive prisoner disdainfully. The man was riding along next to him, his right hand manacled to the saddle horn. ‘You’re a pretty smart cuss for a felon. Working all that out on your lonesome.’

  Bills possessed brutalized features and mean eyes which were currently fixed on those of his captor. Completely missing the sarcasm, he continued airing his train of thought. ‘Which means you’re really going after that gang. And if they put up a fight, I’m just as likely to catch a bullet as you, which sure ain’t my idea of justice!’

  Torrance scoffed at his captive’s concern. ‘You should have thought of that before doing your bad deeds. As for me, I don’t aim to stumble in too close. One of them has already given me a flesh wound with his God damned sawn-off.’ Patting the stock of his Winchester, he continued, ‘This fine rifle can soften them up a bit first. Make them see the error of their ways. I reckon I know where they’re headed and a day’s ride should prove me right . . . or wrong. Either way, where I go, you go and that’s just the way it is.’

  Bills’ eyes narrowed as he digested that. ‘And where might that be?’

  The lawman pondered a moment, before deciding that there could be no harm in disclosing their immediate destination. ‘A ferry crossing on the Arkansas River. If those sons of bitches are heading for the Indian Territories, which I believe they are, then they have to use it. It’s the only one for miles around. Now shut your mouth. I’m done talking!’

  Bills muttered something unintelligible before sinking into, what was for him, deep thought. It occurred to him, as they made their way southwards across the rolling grasslands of the Great Plains that this unexpected detour might just pan out to his advantage. The marshal’s pre-occupation with bank robbers could be that lawman’s undoing – Jonas Bills wasn’t someone you turned your back on. One thing was for sure; the kidnapper and murderer had no intention whatsoever of dangling from Judge Parker’s noose!

  ‘Where the hell are you taking us, boss?’ Huey Soble demanded bitterly. He was hurting bad and in no mood for lengthy excursions. ‘If we carry on like this, we’ll be in God damned Missouri afore long!’

  Russ Decker glanced darkly over at his minion, but decided to make allowances. Although the wounded man was swaying theatrically in his saddle, he was undoubtedly in a lot of pain. In spite of the makeshift bandage, his shirt was soaked with blood and the man riding double with him was in no itching hurry to hold him close.

  ‘Just you hush now, Huey,’ he said softly. ‘What with being a horse short and toting this box, we can’t outrun whoever’s after us. So I’ve taken us off to the east a ways. Any posse will expect us to head straight for the river crossing and then hide up in the Indian Nations. Which means they’ll end up chasing a non-existent trail until they get bored and go home.’

  The six men had ridden up into the hill country to the south east of Wichita, where the plains finally petered out. It was rough ground. Any pursuers would be unlikely to follow them without the help of an Indian tracker. And yet they couldn’t stay there forever. The only relatively safe haven was in the Indian Territories, where there were no white settlements.

  Mark Lansing glanced over at a small grove of trees. ‘I reckon that’ll serve, Russ. Nobody will see us at a distance in there. We can get the bullet out of his shoulder and open up that damn box. Whatever’s in there will be a lot easier to carry, if it’s spread across the six of us . . . Don’t you think?’ He knew from old that it was better to offer his boss the illusion that he had come up with any idea.

  Decker considered the natural canopy. The shade did look inviting and he was undeniably curious as to the contents of the green Wells Fargo box. And Soble’s groaning was getting on his nerves. ‘We’ll camp in those trees,’ he announced decisively. ‘Get a fire going. A small one mind and no leaves.’ His eyes met those of his subordinate. ‘You’d better be the one to get that ball out. Your hand is plenty steady and you’ve done it before.’

  Lansing regarded him ruefully. ‘Thanks, boss. You’re all heart.’

  With the horses tethered and an almost smokeless fire burning, Decker left his men to it. They all knew well enough the basics of campfire surgery and he was now consumed by greedy anticipation. Even as Soble was placed none too gently down next to the fire, the gang leader unfastened the rope binding around the strongbox and lowered it to the ground. It sure was a heavy son of a bitch!

  Whilst Lansing cut away the blood-soaked shirt, his boss firmly grasped the stolen hammer. Soble had already consumed close on a pint of cheap whiskey, but as a leather knife scabbard was placed between his teeth, he still knew full well what was to come. As the knife point approached the throbbing and very tender wound, the terrified outlaw’s eyes were wide with fear.

  A massive blow struck the padlock and Lansing jerked with surprise. ‘God damn it, Russ. I nearly took his ear off then.’

  Decker affected little concern. ‘Pretend you’re a battlefield surgeon. They had to put up with all sorts of distractions.’ With that, he unleashed another tremendous clout that brought sparks flying. His men were torn between their duty to a comrade and instinctive avarice.

  ‘Hold him steady, damn you,’ Lansing barked testily. With that, he eased his blade into the torn flesh and probed gingerly for the lead bullet. With sweat poring from his brow, Soble went rigid and moaned pitifully. The tendons stood out on his neck, as he bit into the tough leather. Another crash came from the strongbox, but this time the amateur sawbones was ready for it. With desperate concentration, he penetrated ever deeper into the bloody wound, until suddenly he came upon an obstruction that definitely wasn’t bone.

  ‘Found it,’ Lansing announced to the accompaniment of yet another metallic crack.

  ‘Shit in a bucket!’ Decker exclaimed. ‘Who forged this poxy thing? We should have taken the blacksmith as well as his hammer.’

  Completely ignoring him, his deputy snapped at the three onlookers. ‘This is going to test Huey badly. One of you get on his legs. The other two on his arms. Quickly now.’

  Once they’d complied, he angled the blade slightly and applied pressure against the flesh’s suction. Soble’s moans intensified and he struggled ever more violently. Then, with a great cry of satisfaction, Lansing held up the rifle bullet with his bloodied fingers for all to see, but he wasn’t to ke
ep his audience for long. At that very moment, Decker let rip with a tremendous blow and the shackle finally surrendered to his determined assault. With the padlock in pieces on the grass, he yanked open the lid and peered eagerly inside.

  Lansing abruptly found himself alone with his suffering patient, but had one more unpleasant duty to perform. Surreptitiously, he pulled the cork out of Soble’s whiskey bottle and took a quick swig. Then, without any warning, he poured the remains of the fiery liquid over the livid wound and leapt back out of range. Without anyone to restrain him, the anguished outlaw flailed around like a berserker. Even then, his pathetic antics merited only a casual glance from his cronies, because their attention was most definitely elsewhere.

  Decker pawed eagerly through the contents of the strongbox. The wads of paper money were a positive, the packets of US Mail less so. He well knew that the theft of them might attract the unwelcome attention of federal marshals. Then he hefted an innocuous looking, thick canvas bag and his eyes lit up. Whatever was in it had definitely contributed to the weight. Excitedly, he cut through the draw cord at the neck and upended the bag. Its dazzling contents spilled out into the box.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he exclaimed. ‘Will you look at that?’

  Four pairs of feverish eyes stared at the pile of freshly minted, gleaming gold Double Eagles.

  Ed Teach could feel his hackles rising yet again. Baxter’s incessant whining and bellyaching was fast becoming intolerable. This was their third day on the narrow keelboat, surrounded by the seemingly limitless Great Plains and the enforced idleness was beginning to tell on them. Running at speed with the current, required that one man be permanently vigilant whilst steering the heavily laden craft, but the other three had absolutely nothing to occupy them. Doubts about Teach’s ‘grand plan’ had begun to creep in, made worse by the fact that their volatile boss didn’t have any answers to their questions and the novelty of being river pirates had long since worn off.