by Paul Bedford
That man carefully placed the hammer in his workbox and slid the barrier fully back to allow the animals access. ‘You’ll both need to dismount, marshal,’ he announced sombrely. ‘Ain’t safe otherwise.’
Bills abruptly recognized an opportunity. ‘For Christ’s sake, marshal, give me a break from this saddle horn, huh? I feel like I’m married to it!’
Torrance glanced scathingly at him, but nevertheless released the manacle. Easing the prisoner off his horse, he then fastened the man’s wrists behind his back and pushed him to the deck.
‘You’re all heart, marshal,’ Bills muttered bleakly.
Taggart joined them on the craft and together the two ferrymen began to pull them across the Arkansas. Doing his best to compensate for the uneven motion, the lawman strolled over to the other side and glanced around. With a gentle breeze on his face and no effort required, it certainly was a very pleasant way to travel, if a bit unsettling at first. Unintentionally, his awareness began to drift. Not for the first time that year, he reflected that it really was time he started taking life a bit easier. A lawman’s existence was all he knew, but it would be a sad thing indeed if that was to be his epitaph.
Regretfully, as with all nice things, the journey soon seemed to be over. The ferry reached the south bank, was made fast and the men and animals disembarked. Bills held his manacled hands well away from his body, making it easier for Torrance to reattach him to the saddle horn.
Vaguely uneasy, the marshal remarked, ‘Not like you to be so co-operative.’
‘Easier than having my shoulders wrenched out of joint,’ came the snarling response, which as expected had the effect of allaying any doubt.
With both men back in their saddles, Marshal Torrance tipped his hat to the ferrymen. ‘No doubt I’ll see you fellas again afore long. Take it easy.’ With that the horsemen rode off to the southeast. There was still a long way to go before they reached Fort Smith.
‘You like that marshal, don’t you, John?’ Jacob remarked. It was more of a comment than a question, but Taggart found some words anyway.
‘Yeah. Yeah I do. He’s decent, which is more than can be said for most of the sour bellies that pass through here.’
The two men exchanged companionable smiles and then began to reverse their course across the river. With food now on their minds, it would be some considerable time before Jacob noticed that he had somehow misplaced his hammer!
‘You know what all this means, don’t you?’
Russ Decker glanced sharply at his sidekick. He knew exactly what was coming, but decided not to make it any easier. ‘All what?’
Mark Lansing sighed with exasperation. ‘The Double Eagles of course and all those God damn letters! By taking those, we must have stirred up a real hornets’ nest. We’re bound to have every kind of law after us now.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Decker angrily. ‘That I should have left that strongbox in the bank?’
Lansing nodded vigorously. ‘Exactly that. And I said it at the time.’
The gang leader suddenly swung round in his saddle and made an abrupt checking motion towards their four companions. Since patching up Huey Soble, the gang had ridden hard, as Decker had decided that they needed after all to risk a dash for the river. As the bewildered horsemen came to a halt, their leader continued on with his subordinate until the two men were out of earshot. Ahead of them and now in plain sight, lay the Arkansas River, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Even though the winter rains were just a distant memory, it was still flowing fast. Far too fast to even consider crossing on horseback.
‘In case you happen to have forgotten, we are bank robbers,’ he remarked acidly. ‘That means we rob banks and take anything in them. This time we’ve done good. Real good! And now it’s up to me to keep us clear of anyone that would hang us. That’s why I claim a larger share of any and all takings.’ He momentarily paused to let that sink in. ‘You’re a good man, Mark, and a good friend, but you don’t always see the bigger picture. We’ve finally got enough dinero to keep us in luxury and señoritas down in Mexico for years. And yet instead of treating me to a Daniel Webster cigar, all I get is bitch, bitch, bitch. Just think about it. All we have to do is make it there in one piece and we’re made.’
In spite of his scepticism, Lansing couldn’t help but be impressed. ‘And I suppose you’ve got it all worked out.’
Decker nodded. ‘You can bet your ass I have. We go south through the Indian Territories. Then roughly southwest across Texas and then turn south again into Mexico. It’s a long, hard ride, but we can make it . . . well, maybe Huey won’t. The key to it, is that we stop anyone from pursuing us past that river.’
‘Even if it means more killing?’ queried Lansing dubiously.
‘That too,’ his boss firmly replied. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘I guess I just wanted to know how this was all going to pan out,’ the other man responded. ‘We’ve been together a long time, Russ. I don’t want to see us split up any time soon.’
Both men knew that he hadn’t really answered the question, but Decker decided not to push it. Instead he made his intentions even plainer. ‘So let’s go put that ferry out of business . . . permanently!’
‘What do you mean you’ve lost a hammer?’ The question came out sharper than Taggart had intended and Jacob flinched.
‘I guess it could have fallen over the side when we ferried the marshal across,’ he replied nervously. ‘I’m normally so careful, that’s all.’
‘I know you are,’ the big man answered in a far milder tone. He was annoyed with himself, because he well knew that his friend couldn’t handle any kind of stress. Then he spotted the six horsemen as they descended the gentle slope behind the cabin and he abruptly lost all interest in the missing tool. The fact that two men shared one animal gave him a clue as to what they might be. ‘Happen it’ll turn up,’ he murmured distractedly.
The horses were well lathered, indicating that they had been ridden very hard. Despite the heat, all the men wore duster coats, except one who was very obviously injured . . . in the left shoulder.
‘Looks like we’ve got some more customers,’ Taggart remarked. ‘Just remember, Jacob, Marshal Torrance was never here. Savvy? I’ve got a feeling that’s as much for our benefit as his.’
The one-armed man nodded eagerly. Since that God-awful war, he hadn’t been interested in what other people did, so long as they left him in peace. And in truth, he was still puzzling over the likely location of his hammer.
Leaving his injured companion to his thoughts, Taggart walked towards the newcomers. He consciously kept his features relaxed and greeted them affably enough. ‘Howdy, friends. I’d say you all look ready to rest a spell. My ferry’s a great place to watch the world go by, while somebody else does the work.’
The lead rider was a big man with sharp eyes. As he reined in, the others swiftly spread out to form a semi-circle around the ferryman. The move was obviously pre-planned to intimidate, but such tactics did not easily work with John Taggart and he held his ground.
‘All in good time, mister. And that’ll be my good time,’ Decker replied. ‘First off, I want to get my bearings. Tell me about this place. Who all’s here apart from you and that amputee?’
Taggart bridled at the tone. He didn’t care to hear such callous talk about his old comrade and also didn’t take kindly to being railroaded on his own place. ‘You’d better back up some, friend. We get all sorts of road agents and low-life’s coming through here. What they learn, is that it’s best just to quietly pay their dollar a piece and cross over, because sooner or later they’re going to need us again.’
Russ Decker didn’t like being referred to as a low-life. His right hand eased towards the long slit in his duster. Taggart noticed immediately and favoured him with a cold smile.
‘There’s also another fine reason to pay up. A .45-.75 cartridge will make a hell of a mess of a man at close range.’
That touched a col
lective nerve. As Decker’s hand froze, Soble’s pain-wracked eyes flitted nervously towards the cabin.
‘I asked you before,’ rasped the gang leader. ‘Just who all else is on this spread?’
Taggart’s response was uncompromising. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? This is my place and my rules. If you can’t accept that, you’d better hightail it out of here and learn to swim!’
Decker could feel the blood pounding through his veins and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself. He had told enough lies in his time to sense when someone was trying to humbug him. This big son of a bitch was really beginning to stick in his craw. He glanced over at Lansing as though seeking an opinion. His deputy merely offered an unhelpful shrug. So no comfort there then.
‘Ok, if you want to run off at the mouth, let’s do it by numbers,’ the outlaw retorted. ‘In my experience, such a rifle is going to belong to either a lawman or a buffalo hunter. Since there ain’t any big shaggies left around here, that only leaves a law-dog.’ Turning to face the cabin, he raised his voice. ‘What are you, law-dog? Federal or local?’
Taggart began to edge casually over to the cabin door. ‘You shouldn’t ought to jump to conclusions, friend. It’ll be the death of you one day.’
Suddenly so certain, Decker seized his holster gun and aimed it directly at the other man’s head. There was no reaction from the cabin and so to hide his immense relief, he favoured the ferryman with a malicious grin. ‘Seems like your friend must be asleep in there, or maybe you just like to play games, huh. Well do you?’
Although his bluff had been called, Taggart managed to maintain his confident demeanour. ‘Only those that I win.’
The outlaw had heard enough. ‘Mark, get his partner away from that ferry. We don’t want it drifting away by accident.’ Momentarily, he glanced over at his ‘ramrod’ and it was all the opening that John Taggart needed.
Completely unexpectedly, the massive ferryman charged at Decker’s horse, all the while bellowing at his partner. ‘Jacob, get onto the river!’
Caught uncharacteristically off-guard, the gang leader tried to draw a bead, but his animal was in the way. As Jacob leapt onto the ferry and seized the cable, Taggart ducked down and grabbed Decker’s right boot. With all his considerable strength, he hurled the outlaw clean out of the saddle and then taking the reins, used the animal as cover to reach his cabin.
As Decker hit the ground hard, his right index finger contracted. The sudden gunshot, although harmless, added to the brief confusion and spurred Jacob to greater efforts. Although desperately concerned over John’s survival, he knew better than to ignore such a direct command and so heaved frantically on the heavy cable. Even though he still cursed the loss of his left arm, he did slowly but surely draw the craft away from the riverbank.
As Taggart slammed through the door of the cabin, one of the outlaws loosed off a shot at the ferry. Although gasping for breath, the gang leader still had full possession of his wits.
‘Stop firing, you moron. How are we supposed to get the ferry back if he’s dead?’
Inside the cabin, Taggart grabbed his cut down sawn-off and retracted both hammers. He knew full well that he couldn’t kill all six desperados, but once the ferry was out of reach he would have a bargaining tool. Stepping to one side, he flung the door open and thrust his deadly weapon across the threshold. Unable to take aim, he just squeezed both triggers. There was a tremendous crash and his hand bucked under the recoil. Even through ringing ears, he could hear the tortured cries outside and they weren’t all human.
Frantically, he ejected the smoking cartridges, but time was against him. Before he could load two fresh ones, the barrel of a revolver appeared directly before him. At the same time as the muzzle flash erupted towards his face, he felt a hammer blow on the side of his head and then everything went black.
Even over the noise of the mighty Arkansas, Jacob couldn’t fail to recognize the distinctive sound of John’s shotgun discharging. Unable to stop himself, he glanced back at the cabin. A horse and rider lay on the ground, both apparently twitching in their death throws, but that still left five more gunmen. Another shot rang out and despite the sweat pouring from his body, a dreadful chill swept over him. Surely his one and only friend in the world couldn’t be dead.
Jonas Bills had waited hours for the right opportunity. His nerves were stretched to breaking point, because he knew he’d only get the one chance. That’s all anybody ever got with Deputy US Marshal Sam Torrance. With his right hand securely manacled to the saddle, he needed the marshal on his left and close enough to touch. Ironically it was the lawman’s basically decent nature that supplied the opportunity Bills desperately needed. Swinging in next to his unusually grim-faced prisoner, Torrance displayed a wedge of chewing tobacco.
‘How’s about a chaw? If you don’t lighten up, you’ll likely expire from a conniption fit before we even get to Fort Smith.’
Despite the pounding tension in his skull, Bills managed to present the makings of a grimace and nodded once.
‘You really are all shit and no sugar,’ replied the marshal, but nevertheless he produced a pocketknife and began to slice off a good-sized piece.
Bills eased his left hand out, as though to receive his unexpected present and then thrust it swiftly behind his back. His fingers closed around Jacob Stuckey’s hammer and he dragged it out from under the rear of his jacket. Suddenly there could be no going back.
After years of hunting felons, Sam Torrance possessed a sixth sense for danger. Dropping the diminutive blade as though it were a hot coal, his right hand leapt for the revolver strapped to his waist. He very nearly made it!
The face of the hammer swung around in a wide arc and struck him squarely between the shoulder blades. Uttering a strangled cry, the federal officer tumbled forward off his horse and hit the ground with enough force to empty his lungs. With feverish anxiety, Bills slipped out of his saddle and lurched towards his victim, only to be painfully pulled up short by the unyielding manacle.
‘God damn it to hell,’ he snarled. Ignoring the sudden agony in his wrist, the crazed prisoner desperately dragged his animal nearer, but even then his bludgeon wouldn’t quite reach the prone lawman. As Torrance began to draw air into his gasping lungs, the frustrated outlaw howled out a string of obscenities. Then it came to him . . . the cinch strap.
Frantically, he unbuckled the retaining belt and heaved the saddle to the ground. Like a maddened bear after its prey, Bills then dragged it across the ‘tall and uncut’ until he was directly above the recovering lawman. With great relish, the brutalized desperado swung out randomly at Torrance’s heaving shoulders. Blow upon blow rained down on the defenceless man, until finally tiring of the sport Bills launched a great swipe at Torrance’s skull. There was a shocking crack that surprised even the maniac responsible and his victim finally lay still.
‘Hot dang,’ whooped the outlaw jubilantly. ‘I’ve actually done it. I’ve bested the son of a bitch!’
Surprised at his own success, Bills allowed the hammer to slip from his grasp as he dropped to his knees next to the undoubtedly dead lawman. After a moment’s hesitation, he eagerly rifled Torrance’s pockets of anything and everything. The discovery of the key to the manacles brought a grunt of satisfaction, soon followed by an exhilarating sense of freedom as the shackle permanently fell away.
After briefly massaging his wrist, Bills heaved the marshal over onto his back and unbuckled the black leather gun belt. ‘Haw, haw, haw,’ he crowed to the empty landscape, as he strapped the quality acquisition around his own waist. Still not quite able to believe his own good fortune, the outlaw suddenly glanced nervously down at the unmoving lawman.
‘Treated me like dirt, didn’t you? You old bastard,’ he shouted out. Then, for some unaccountable reason, the outlaw felt a chill come over him. It was like a sixth sense warning him that he was no longer alone. Quite unexpectedly under the circumstances, he had a sudden overwhelming urge to be on his way . .
. fast.
No longer burdened by a saddle, Bills’ horse had wandered off in search of grazing and he had no inclination to go after it. The marshal’s animal would serve well enough and besides, it had that top-notch Winchester in its saddle scabbard. Any God damned posse had better watch out, now that he possessed such a weapon.
Consciously shaking off the strange sense of unease that had gripped him, he pocketed all his booty and clambered to his feet. Without giving Jacob’s hammer a second thought, Jonas Bills mounted up and quickly rode away. With an instinctive desire to keep well clear of Fort Smith, he headed west: deeper into the Indian Territories.
Chapter Six
The seven men had left town at a gallop, but that was just to put on a show for the bank president who Ben Exley knew would be watching. Once out of sight of the rooftops, the Pinkerton Agents had reined back to a steady walk. Although the trail was over a day old, Exley had no intention of running his men ragged. Apart from anything else, he didn’t need to. Even a small child could point the way to the Arkansas River and once beyond that he had Raoul.
The Pinkerton glanced over at his tracker and grunted to himself. Of all the men that he had encountered in his eventful life, no one had possessed the capacity to unnerve him quite like Raoul. Exley thought of the man as a half-breed, but in truth his ancestry was probably far more varied than that. For a start, his name was French, which suggested that one of his forebears had been a fur trapper or some such. He had sallow skin and eyes like black coals that were never still. A vicious quirt dangled from his left wrist, which Exley had once seen used to lash a man into blubbering submission. Time and again throughout the mid-west, Raoul had proven his worth in hunting down bank and train robbers.
It was said that only an Indian could track another Indian, but they weren’t hunting redskins and so one thing was a certainty. If those God damned murdering thieves had crossed over into the Nations, then Raoul would find them!
