by Paul Bedford
Huey, still in great pain, stared at him aghast. ‘That’s a plan?’
Chapter Seven
Jonas Bills detected the smell of food long before he saw it and it made his guts ache. The sun was going down and he had covered a lot of miles since slaying the marshal. Not wanting to build a fire of his own, he had made do with cold beef jerky and corn dodgers from the lawman’s saddle-bags. It was not surprising then, that the aroma of sizzling bacon was more than he could endure.
Cautiously cresting a low rise, he spotted a small stand of trees in the middle distance. A single horse grazed in plain view, whilst its owner, partially concealed by foliage, was hunched over a campfire with his back to the hungry outlaw. Light from the flames danced in the encroaching branches. It was an idyllic scene, made more attractive by the fact that yet again he would be able to get something for nothing.
Bills’ lean features twisted into a grin as he extracted his brutally acquired Winchester from its scabbard. He chambered a cartridge and drew a bead on the unsuspecting figure. On the point of squeezing the trigger, he was suddenly assailed by unaccustomed caution. He knew for a fact that he was deep in Creek Indian Territory. Although known as one of the five ‘civilized’ tribes, he recalled people said that they weren’t always that civilized. Better to leave gunfire as a last resort.
Retaining his grip on the rifle, Bills cautiously urged his mount towards the trees, all the while checking the terrain around him. As he drew closer, the lone stranger glanced around in apparent surprise and slowly got to his feet. He was a big-boned fellow with an unkempt beard who, to Bills’ startled eyes, possessed one very notable redeeming feature. He appeared to be completely unarmed, which in itself begged a question. What fool would travel through Indian country without even so much as a belt gun?
‘Hello the fire,’ the outlaw called out with a modest attempt at bonhomie. ‘That bacon’s been working on my guts for the last mile. What say I help you finish it?’
The bearded man glanced briefly at the Winchester. Then his hairy features broke into a smile. ‘Hell, you won’t need to bully me with that long gun, friend. There’s more than enough to go around and it’ll be nice to have some company.’
Bills weighed up the other man suspiciously. He wasn’t used to folks being nice to him. ‘So say you,’ he gruffly replied. ‘But I’ll be happier with some space between us. Back off!’
The other man frowned briefly, but nevertheless retreated further into the wood. His demeanour indicated acceptance, rather than anger or fear. If Bills hadn’t been so hungry, he might have pondered on that. Instead, he merely dismounted and advanced into the welcoming shade. It momentarily crossed his mind to scrutinize the branches above, but with rashers of bacon sizzling temptingly in a pan, it was more than he could do to tear his eyes away from them.
‘Down on the ground,’ he barked impatiently. ‘Sit on your hands and if you’re lucky I might let you live.’
To his great surprise, his captive merely grinned at him. Then a sudden rustling of foliage came from directly above and Jonas Bills was gripped by an all too familiar icy chill. Desperately, he tried to step back and raise his rifle, but before he had time to do either, a dead weight crashed onto his shoulders and sent him tumbling to the grass.
Winded and pinned to the ground, he had no chance to react before six inches of honed steel penetrated between his ribs. As his lifeblood unstoppably erupted over the greenery, any chance of resistance disappeared. In fact, despite the shocking agony, the stricken outlaw wasn’t even able to cry out. Time and again the vicious blade ferociously pierced the soft flesh of his torso. Jonas Bills twitched violently and then died without even knowing the identity of his assailant. It was a sad fact that under different circumstances he would definitely have approved of such savagery.
As his kill crazy lust finally abated, the scrawny assassin with the thin moustache got slowly to his feet and backed away from his blood-drenched victim.
‘Jesus, Klee,’ the bearded individual exclaimed. ‘Remind me never to let you get to the back of me with a knife!’
‘Huh, that was too easy,’ Klee remarked scornfully, as he glanced curiously over at the discarded rifle lying in the grass. He briefly hunkered down to clean his blade on Bills’ trousers, before moving off to claim his prize. Eyes widening with unexpected delight, he gleefully grasped the strongly constructed Winchester and proclaimed, ‘Will you look at this gun? It sure beats the hell out of my old Spencer. You could bring down a grizzly with it and not even break into a sweat.’
The other man registered annoyance. ‘I kind of thought that’d be mine. On account of I’m smarter and this was all my idea.’
Klee’s tight lips twisted into a sneer. ‘Too thin, Brad, too thin. You could have written the Gettysburg Address for old Abe, but this still wouldn’t be yourn. I drew blood for it, which makes me entitled.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ muttered Brad sourly, but nevertheless he made no further objection. Instead he ambled over to the cadaver and unbuckled the shiny gun belt. ‘I guess I’ll just have to settle for this smoke wagon. At least we’re toting some firearms at last.’
The smaller man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Which means we can go settle scores with that bastard Taggart and his armless Reb. Funny thing though. These weapons look too classy by far for that stiff. He looked down on his luck, even before I put all those holes in him.’ With that, he headed off through the trees to collect his own horse, which had been tethered out of sight along with the two heavily laden pack mules.
Brad watched him leave through narrowed eyes. He didn’t give a damn who their new weapons had once belonged to, but one thing was for sure. He definitely didn’t like deferring to anyone and it occurred to him that there might have to be another reckoning once the big ferryman had cashed in his chips! That way, the sale proceeds of their newly acquired horse and saddle wouldn’t have to be diluted by any unnecessary 50/50 split. Not to mention all the cheap trader whiskey that they were still hauling around!
Very tentatively, Sam Torrance opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. He was lying on his back and so what remained of the day’s light seemed to lance in to every corner of his pain-wracked skull. Groaning, he snapped his eyelids shut and tried to make sense of his parlous situation. All he could remember was offering Jonas Bills some chewing tobacco. Somehow or other, the ‘bull turd’ must have got the drop on him and left him for dead.
Keeping his eyes closed, the marshal gingerly ran trembling hands over his body. Gun belt gone, naturally. Money gone, but thankfully he still seemed to possess his boots, because it was highly likely that he would be on foot.
‘God damn it all to hell,’ he snarled angrily. His pride appeared to have come off worse than his body and so, very recklessly, Torrance rolled onto one side as a prelude to getting up. Terrifyingly, a section of bone seemed to shift very unpleasantly under his scalp and he howled out with pain and shock. As nausea threatened to overwhelm him, the lawman realized that there was something badly wrong with his head. He had pistol-whipped enough felons in his time to know that he very likely had a fractured skull.
At that point, most other mortals would have succumbed to self-pity and stayed put for a time, but that wasn’t his way. Gritting his teeth, he continued with the roll until he was on hands and knees. It was then that he discovered that his shoulders had also taken a severe pounding. That pus weasel Jonas Bills had certainly exacted a heavy toll.
For long moments, the battered federal officer remained almost immobile, just breathing slow and deep. Then, with eyes wide open, he made a supreme effort and clambered unsteadily to his feet. Something seemed to explode inside his head and he let out a tremendous groan . . . but he did remain upright. Noticeably swaying, Torrance made no attempt to move. He just stood there and allowed his narrowed eyes to scrutinize his surroundings.
To his great delight, the first thing that he saw was Jonas Bills’ horse. His heart momentarily sank when he realised that he wo
uld have to saddle it, but then he noticed something else that brought a scowl of bitter anger to his features. On the grass, barely three feet away, lay a solitary hammer. Realising full well its dark purpose, Torrance decided there and then that whatever effort it cost him, he would be taking it with him. But where to go? Logic dictated a return to Taggart’s Crossing. He knew that when the chips were down, the big man would help him in any way possible . . . always supposing that he was able to, of course. There were definite limits to what any amateur sawbones could achieve.
It took him a horrendous amount of time and much painful effort to saddle the reluctant animal. Every part of his upper body seemed to hurt and his mood wasn’t improved by the discovery of the manacles still fastened to the saddle horn. Since the key was nowhere to be seen, they would be a constant reminder of the dreadful change in his circumstances.
Although night was beginning to fall, the marshal decided that he had spent enough time in one place. He was effectively unarmed and his surroundings weren’t known as the Indian Territories for nothing. Steeling himself against the inevitable pain, Sam Torrance took hold of the saddle horn and dragged his pain-wracked body up into the saddle. It was more than he could do not to cry out and even when mounted it was some time before he was able to urge the horse forward. He decided there and then to only travel until full darkness had descended. In his condition, it made no sense to risk a tumble that he most likely wouldn’t get up from. And so it was that he began the slow and painful journey back to the safety of Taggart’s Crossing.
Unable to ignore the man’s desperate pleas, Jacob had reluctantly entered the water again. Fetching up on the ferry brought him face to face with his gutshot victim and he wasn’t a pretty sight. The surrounding timber was stained with blood . . . a lot of it. Under the present circumstances, or indeed any other imaginable, the bullet was untouchable and death inevitable. All he could do was maybe bind the wound and make him as comfortable as possible. Then his common sense told him that any attempt to tinker would only generate unnecessary agony. Considering his usual reticence, Jacob was remarkably forthright.
‘I cain’t do nothing for you, mister,’ he softly announced, as he scooped up yet another discarded revolver from the deck before him. ‘I know you’re outlawed up, but I’m real sorry it’s come to this.’
Mark Lansing had seen enough death to know what was coming his way. He nodded silently and then reached out to touch Jacob’s leg. ‘I guess I had it coming eventually. Just stay with me for a while, huh? I don’t want to leave this world all on my lonesome.’
His killer pondered that request for a moment. It was a big ask. Remaining on the ferry made him vulnerable to another attack. Then again, the light had almost gone and only a fool would try to cross that river in darkness. ‘I reckon I can stay with you for a while,’ he responded. ‘Just don’t try anything. Yeah?’
Lansing attempted a chuckle, but it came out as a groan. ‘Mister, my trying days are all over.’ He paused for a painful moment, before continuing with, ‘I’m powerful thirsty all of a sudden.’
Jacob laughed spontaneously. ‘Well I’ll tell you, water’s one thing we’re not short of hereabouts.’
John Taggart lay uncomfortably on the hard floor, apparently forgotten about for the moment. His cot, built to accommodate an outsize frame, had been requisitioned by the wounded outlaw known as Huey. Decker had taken Jacob’s, although he was currently pacing up and down the room, deep in thought. With darkness having fallen, Brett had returned to the cabin and now stood drinking Taggart’s coffee, for all the world as though he owned the place. He was content to let someone else do all the thinking, but one of his companions was far less complacent. Despite, or maybe because of his being in pain, Huey was about to go on the prod.
‘Way I see it, boss, we’re caught between a rock and a hard place. So what are you gonna do about it?’
The outlaw leader came to a grinding halt. His grim expression and blazing eyes indicated that he was on a very short fuse indeed. And as Decker’s right hand moved fractionally towards the holstered Colt, Huey belatedly contemplated the prospect of another bullet wound. It therefore took everybody by surprise when Decker suddenly transferred his full attention to the bound ferryman.
‘Come daylight, it’s make or break time, big man. You’re going back out there under my gun again. Only this time if that limbless son of a bitch doesn’t bring the ferry back, I’ll take you apart piece by piece. It ain’t just Indians that know how to torment a man.’ Without awaiting a response, he abruptly returned his fierce gaze to the wounded outlaw. ‘That’s my plan. Take it or leave it, hombre,’ he hissed.
Chapter Eight
Brett had been ensconced on the reverse slope of the rise above the cabin for just over one hour and on such a summer’s morning it was definitely no hardship. In truth, he was glad to be clear of Russ Decker, who ever since their arrival at the ferry crossing had been behaving like a bear with a sore head. And yet his temporary independence was about to go sour. A group of seven riders suddenly came into view, heading at a steady pace from the direction of Wichita. They had all the appearance of a posse, which of course was exactly what they were.
‘Oh shit,’ he muttered unhappily. Chambering a cartridge in his old Henry, Brett abruptly had an unwelcome decision to make. Should he open fire or hightail it back to Decker for instructions? Recognizing that the horsemen had to be kept clear of the cabin, he decided on the former. Tucking the well-worn butt into his shoulder, the outlaw drew a bead on the leading rider.
The Pinkerton men had been in the saddle since daybreak. They all knew that the river was close, but it was Raoul riding point who saved someone’s life . . . quite possibly his own. Without warning, he brutally reined in and slid from the saddle. Expertly, he pulled his horse to the ground and dropped down over its neck, rifle in hand. His startled companions were seasoned detectives. They well understood what such action meant and knew better than to question his judgment. After rapidly dismounting, five of them handed their reins to a single horse holder who backed off with six mounts, leaving the other men to spread out across the trail.
Ben Exley called over to the tracker. ‘What’s got you spooked, Raoul?’ His unfortunate word choice indicated that he had definitely been taken by surprise.
‘Nothing spooks me. You well know that, Mister Exley,’ came the snarling retort. ‘Somebody has us under his gun, is all.’
‘I don’t see nothing,’ retorted one of the others.
‘That don’t mean shit,’ Raoul responded scathingly. ‘It’s enough that I know he’s out there.’
Exley nodded his agreement. ‘You’ve always been right before, so I’ll go with that. What do you propose?’
‘I’ll move in to flush him out. He’ll either open fire or hightail it. And if you start shooting, just remember that I’m in front of you, yeah?’ Without waiting for a response, he imperiously added, ‘One of you get over here and lie on this horse. He don’t get paid enough to risk a bullet.’ With this achieved, the ’breed crawled off through the long grass without another word.
Brett had observed the posse’s rapid dispersal with incredulity. He couldn’t work out how they had spotted him, but the sure knowledge that they had, began to work on his nerves. Sweaty palms ran in his family and they were sure as hell running now. As the posse’s point man stealthily advanced towards him, the bank robber knew that it was time to retreat. Staying low, he slid back down the gentle rise before racing over to the cabin.
‘It’s Brett. I’m coming in,’ he had the sense to yell, before running at the door. Bursting inside in a state of feverish anxiety, he found three weapons levelled at him. ‘Sweet Jesus, don’t shoot, fellas. It’s not me you need to worry over, but that damned posse.’
Decker leapt forward and literally grabbed him by the throat. ‘How many and what kind of law?’
Brett shook himself free. ‘Hell, don’t take on at me, boss,’ he whined. ‘There’s maybe half a do
zen or so. From the way they went to ground, I reckon they’re professionals, not local law or cowmen making up the numbers.’
‘Just great,’ Decker muttered, suddenly deep in thought. He wasn’t long in coming to a decision. ‘OK, so we knew this would happen. Josh. Get back up there with him. And you too, Huey. I know you’re hurting, but I can’t spare you. The three of you have got to hold them off while I get that ferry back on side. You hear me? Whatever it takes, just keep them away from the landing stage.’ With that, he switched his full attention to John Taggart.
The ferryman had passed a poor night on the hard floor. His hands and feet remained bound and his face was blistered and sore from the two near misses. Yet his eyes glittered in a way that suggested he still had plenty of fight left in him.
As the three outlaws left the cabin, Decker unsheathed his hunting knife and sliced through the rope around his prisoner’s legs. ‘On your feet, you big bastard. I let you live last night. Now you’re going to earn it.’
Despite his natural belligerence, Taggart was unable to stifle a moan as he staggered to his feet. With circulation returning, the pain in his legs was truly murderous. As Decker impatiently shoved him towards the threshold, Huey abruptly re-appeared. The suspicion on his face was plain to see.
‘You’ll be sure an’ let us know when you’re ready to leave, won’t you, boss? Only you’ll likely need help carrying all those gold coins into the Nations.’
The inference was obvious and Decker didn’t like it one bit. ‘When I side with a man, I stick with him,’ he responded angrily. ‘I don’t cheat him and I don’t leave him to the buzzards . . . like we could have done with you. Now get back up that hillside and help the others!’
The outlaw scowled, but finally did as he was told. Hefting the Winchester in his left hand, Decker drew his revolver and prodded his captive outside. ‘Get over to the landing stage. Let’s see if that friend of yours is awake yet.’
