by Paul Bedford
‘Good for you, mister,’ was Brad’s deceptively cheery response. With that, he unbuckled his gun belt and handed it over to Klee. Rapidly descending the slope, he added loudly, ‘If I was you, I’d get my possibles together. I ain’t hanging around over there for long, on account of that posse might just have paper on us as well.’
Decker lingered for a moment more, watching while the bearded son of a bitch seized the massive cable and entered the water. Then he turned and raced over to the cabin. Suddenly, the only thing on his mind was how to preserve his glorious hoard of Gold Double Eagles!
Brett and Josh exchanged desperate glances. Both knew that they couldn’t hold out much longer. Empty brass cartridge cases fairly littered the ground and their faces were smudged with black powder residue. Sustained rapid firing meant they were running low on ammunition and now the Pinkertons were extending the semi-circle around them, so as to increase the pressure. The gunfight had been so intense that neither of them had even heard the occasional gunshot from the far side of the river. Even wearing leather gloves, Brett struggled to hold the burning hot barrel of his Henry rifle, as he frantically searched for a target.
It wasn’t the first time that he had regretted not obtaining the more modern Winchester, with its protective wooden forestock. Unluckily for the increasingly agitated man, it was another feature of the early repeater that was about to get him killed. Spotting movement, he squeezed the trigger, only to be rewarded with a metallic click. Cursing, he reached into his jacket pocket for the few remaining cartridges.
‘Reloading,’ he called over to Josh.
Winchesters possessed a side-loading gate, whereas its forerunner had to be reloaded from the muzzle end. That was not always an easy operation for a prone shooter. As Brett rose up from the grass slightly, to slide the spring’s tab along the full length of the tubular magazine, another well-aimed bullet from Raoul’s Sharps tore into his throat. The outlaw went momentarily rigid with shock and then began to choke on his own blood. No longer in control of his dying body, he briefly stared at his own weapon in apparent amazement, before collapsing to the ground.
Recognizing the sound of the damned Sharps, Josh returned fire, but of course its owner had already wisely shifted position. Anxiously, he then glanced over at the fresh cadaver. ‘Are you just wounded or what, Brett?’ And then after a tortuous few seconds, ‘For Christ’s sake, answer me!’
As it dawned on him that he was all that remained of the rearguard, the colour drained from Josh’s grubby features. The fact that all shooting had ceased, only seemed to emphasize his sudden isolation.
‘Looks like you’re all on your lonesome, fella,’ taunted a triumphant Ben Exley. ‘How’s about you throw down your shooting irons and step out into the open? That way you’ll live to see another sunrise . . . even if it is through the bars of a jail cell. Ha, ha!’
Josh noisily exhaled through his nose like a horse. ‘The hell with this,’ he muttered bitterly and then far louder, ‘The hell with you, mister!’ With that, he discharged one last bullet in the general direction of his tormenter and then scurried back down the slope for the final time. He had no inkling that his last defiant gesture had actually got a result of sorts.
Exley stared in stunned disbelief at the bloody stump where his right forefinger had been. Their lone opponent’s last wild shot would have struck him full on in the chest, had he not been holding his rifle slant ways in front of him. As it was, the now badly scored weapon had deflected Josh’s bullet, but not before it completely severed the detective’s digit. Momentarily overwhelmed by a wave of pain and nausea, Exley groaned and curled over in a foetal position. He was still like that when Raoul crawled over to examine him.
‘Looks like you’ll have to be a left-handed gun from now on, Mister Exley,’ the tracker remarked with a complete lack of compassion.
His leader stared up into the cold, hooded eyes and experienced a surge of raw anger, but even though in great distress the Pinkerton man realized that it was more sensible to direct such emotion elsewhere. ‘I want that bastard dead, d’you hear me? I want him dead!’
Raoul held the other man’s impassioned stare for a moment longer, before offering a rare smile. ‘I reckon I can do that,’ he responded and then turned away without another word. It was left to one of the other agents to produce a kerchief with which to help stem the flow of blood.
Deputy United States Marshal Sam Torrance was in a bad way, but not so bad that he didn’t realise he’d picked up a tail. Not having actually seen anyone, it was more of a feeling really, but he’d been pursuing fugitives far too long to disregard it. And given the elusive nature of his mysterious shadow, it was all too likely to be an Indian.
As another wave of pain lanced through his skull, the lawman knew that he somehow had to exhibit his capacity to resist . . . otherwise he was buzzard bait for sure. Cautiously, he reached up to adjust the makeshift bandage that he had fashioned out of one of his shirtsleeves. He knew without looking that the material was damp with blood, but it would have to suffice, at least until he reached what passed for civilisation out in the mid-west.
With a conscious effort, Torrance used the same hand to shield his eyes temporarily while he searched the surrounding terrain. Up ahead there was a small stand of oak trees and he grunted with satisfaction. Urging his mount forward, he was soon in amongst them. Taking great care that none of the overhanging branches came anywhere near his extremely sensitive skull, the marshal peered around until he saw what he needed.
Struggling against the throbbing agony generated by any form of exertion, he used the hammer that Jonas Bills had generously left him to smash off a thin, straight branch of approximately three feet in length. Then, using his small pocket-knife, he whittled off all the twigs, until his new possession was relatively smooth. The effort required for all this had caused his limbs to tremble. Although it was a far from convincing effort, it would have to do!
Resting the ‘butt’ of his new ‘rifle’ on his right thigh, the lawman carefully wheeled his horse around and headed off a short distance down their back trail. Reining in, he conspicuously began to draw a bead on an imaginary enemy in a number of directions, as though demonstrating his complete lack of fear of whoever might be out there. Finally, having made his point and feeling thoroughly worn out, Torrance returned to his original north-westerly course. He knew that he was running a gigantic bluff, which all depended on his secretive companion keeping his distance for a while longer. With the hot sun burning down on him he sighed deeply. The only thing keeping him going was the thought that one day he would catch up with that little pus weasel Bills and beat him flatter than hammered shit!
Josh pounded towards Taggart’s cabin as though the hounds of hell were after him. He had no idea how far behind him the posse was, but with every step he expected to hear the sound of that terrifyingly proficient Sharps. Then movement on the river caught his eye and what he witnessed shocked him to his core. The vitally important ferry had finally crossed over, but now appeared to be heading back again. It was already a couple of yards from the landing stage. On board were Russ Decker, two heavily laden horses and some bearded cuss that Josh had never even clapped eyes on before. It was that man who heaved on the cable, whilst the outlaw leader controlled the nervous animals.
‘Hey, wait for me,’ Josh yelled out in utter desperation.
Taken by surprise, his boss glanced sharply over at him and then said something to his mysterious buddy. That individual merely shook his head and kept on pulling.
Noticeably angry at the curt dismissal, Decker bellowed back at his sole surviving gang member. ‘Take a run at it. I’ll help you.’
Josh took a fleeting look behind him. There was movement on the crest of the rise. His only chance was the river. Spurred on by sheer terror, he raced towards the wooden decking. With his heart thumping and lungs burning, he rapidly drew closer. Even as his boots hit the timber, he recognized that the ferry was definitely out of reach
. Yet if he could just get near and grab the cable, then maybe his boss would pull him in.
‘Jump for it,’ Decker hollered encouragingly. Under the fraught circumstances, Josh couldn’t possibly have realized that Decker’s obvious desire for his survival stemmed from more than just genuine fellowship. His boss had seen the very urgent need for back-up when negotiating terms with his two ‘rescuers’.
There before him was the glistening water. He had done it. With a last tremendous burst of speed, Josh launched himself across the relentlessly expanding gap. Even as he did so, he hurled his Winchester onto the deck of the ferry. One less thing to worry about. The bullet from Raoul’s Sharps struck him when he was literally in mid-air. The stunning shock was quite unbelievable and very suddenly nothing was possible anymore. Hitting the surface right next to the cable, he knew he should grab a hold but no longer had any control over his own body. As fresh blood tinged the water, Decker could only watch in dismay as the strong current swept his last man irrevocably out of reach and away to an unknown resting place.
Chapter Ten
Raoul had accumulated three kills on this job alone. He had done his bit and in any case, he had spotted the lone figure over on the south bank. The half-breed knew all too well what that meant: covering fire. Veering off to his left, the tracker slipped into the empty cabin and sought out the stove. It was while waiting for the coffee to heat up that he took a look around the chaotic interior. What he saw made his heart pump like an anvil strike. Dollar bills of all denominations were strewn over the floor near one of the cots. The remaining thieves had obviously left in a desperate hurry.
What really popped his cork was the sight of a sizeable pile of twenty-dollar bills. His lean face momentarily lit up. Doubtless the money was from the Wichita bank robbery, which meant that he could safely pocket it and no one would be any the wiser. Swiftly, he did just that. To a man like him it was a not-so-small fortune that could change his life – so long as it wasn’t discovered on his person. Things were definitely looking up!
Ben Exley was white-faced, but determined. The way to the river was finally clear and he intended to be there when the loot was recovered. Cradling his injured hand, he got shakily to his feet. With his remaining four agents around him, he clambered down the rise just in time to witness a strange thing. The ferry, with two men and horses on its deck, was moving out into the river and yet his tracker was just disappearing into the cabin.
Baffled, the Pinkerton cried out, ‘What the hell is the ’breed doing? You men get over to the riverbank and lay down some fire on that God damned ferry.’
With Raoul out of the way, the others were eager to show some colour and so ran forward purposefully. The rapid rifle fire from the far side caught them completely by surprise. It was both accurate and lethal. One man died instantly; the top of his head lifted clean off. Another took a bullet in his right shoulder as he turned to flee and suddenly it was a rout. The three survivors raced or staggered for the cover of the cabin, rejoining their boss on the way. As they reached it, the door abruptly opened.
‘Surprised you didn’t see that coming,’ Raoul remarked matter of factly as they all piled in. ‘That long gun over there has got some real power behind it. You can feel it even in here.’
‘You could have warned us,’ Exley responded bitterly.
The tracker’s eyes glinted dangerously. ‘The man that made you bleed is feeding the fishes. I figured that had at least earned me a coffee. Besides, even a blind man on a galloping horse could have spotted the rifleman over yonder.’
Exley stared at him wide-eyed for a moment. Not for the first time, Raoul had caught him off balance and this was no time to attempt a rebuke. His wounded agent was bleeding profusely and in great pain and with every passing minute the proceeds of the bank robbery were moving further out of reach.
‘Fair enough,’ he responded evenly. ‘But when you’ve finished your drink, you might see to Tucker before he bleeds to death.’ With that, the Pinkerton boss turned away, annoyed with himself. He knew that he was being unfair. Raoul was one of the best in the business, but there was something about the half-breed’s manner that got under his skin. Feeling unpleasantly light-headed, he glanced through the cabin’s only window and watched the progress of the ferry with frustration. Just what was he going to do about that?
As John Taggart clawed his way up the muddy bank, he heard a gunshot from near the cabin. Knowing that anything that ended up in the water would have to come past him, he decided it was worth investigating and so quickly retraced his steps. As luck would have it, the ferryman spotted the body immediately. It was one of Decker’s gun thugs and the Arkansas’s treacherous current had conveniently carried the body over towards the south bank.
Steeling himself for another ducking, Taggart plunged into the river and struck out to intercept the luckless outlaw. Just on the point of colliding with the sodden corpse, he turned aside and grabbed hold at the most secure point . . . the gunbelt. Moments later, he heaved Josh’s carcass onto relatively dry land. Paying it scant respect, the big man unbuckled the belt, checked the pockets for coins and spare cartridges and then unceremoniously pitched him back into the water. With the comforting feel of a weapon now strapped to his waist, Taggart glared back upriver. In addition to avenging his friend, he also wanted his God damned crossing back!
Russ Decker was absolutely mortified. The ferry had come to a stop in almost exactly the same place as it had been when the one armed cockchafer had originally escaped on it. The new ‘operator’ stood with his hand resting lightly on the thick cable. Already Brad had adopted a proprietorial manner, as though genuinely considering that the river crossing and everything connected to it now belonged to him. A superior smile briefly flitted across his bearded features and then he got down to business.
‘Those fellas in the cabin suddenly don’t seem keen to interfere. Klee often has that affect on people, so I reckon this is as good a place as any to talk business. Oh and in case you’re tempted to use that carbine, you might recollect just how handy my partner is with his new toy. He might not look much, but he’s one mean son of a bitch.’
Decker glanced over at the diminutive figure standing on the south bank and sighed. It was quite obviously a Winchester in his hands, but it appeared somehow more robust and powerful than the models that he was familiar with. And there was no doubting his ability with it.
‘So how much do you need to set me down on dry land?’ he queried, doing his best to hide the anger that surged through him. He was acutely aware that he was now an outlaw leader without a gang.
Brad guffawed jovially, but any humour completely failed to reach his hard eyes. ‘Now that kind of depends on what you’re carrying in those saddle bags. Open one of them up, so’s I can take a peek,’ he instructed.
Decker gripped his long gun so hard that his knuckles turned white. Momentarily he considered driving the horses forward, into and over the bearded bastard and then taking his chances in the water, but then common sense returned. Slowly and very reluctantly he began to unbuckle the nearest bag.
Maybe it had been the river water or more likely Naylor’s old needle, but one way or another the wound had become infected. The constant pain emanating from his ear gnawed at Teach like a cancer, and Baxter’s irritating presence served as a continuous reminder of just whose fault it was. Since fleeing Dodge City, that man had very sensibly kept his distance and held his tongue, but their companions knew that it was only a matter of time before he slipped up.
The previous night, the keelboat had briefly pulled in to the north bank of the Arkansas River just outside the city of Great Bend, Kansas. The former cow town was considerably more peaceful than Dodge and Naylor had been able to sneak in and steal some food without provoking a hue and cry. After that, the craft and its reluctant crew had followed the river around the ‘great bend’ from which the settlement had been named. From then on they would be heading relentlessly southeast into the Indian Territories,
coincidentally passing close to the city of Wichita.
It was frustration at his lack of cash and genuine concern over their eventual destination that ultimately led Barf Baxter into a world of hurt. The sound of persistent gunfire downriver had him reaching for one of the sturdy wooden poles and he didn’t even bother to ask permission from his supposed leader. Jabbing it into the river bottom, he began to alter the course of the shallow-drafted craft.
Despite his deteriorating condition, Ed Teach had insisted on remaining as helmsman and now regarded Baxter with irrational fury.
‘Get that God damn pole back in the boat,’ he snarled, showering spittle over the deck. ‘I say where we go!’
‘There’s shooting up ahead,’ Baxter retorted angrily. ‘You’ve no idea where you’re taking us anyway and I sure as hell ain’t going to take a bullet for you.’
Teach’s sickly pallor abruptly disappeared as his hairy features took on a scarlet hue. ‘You gutless piece of shit,’ he barked out. ‘I’ve taken all I’m going to from you. It’s time to come to conclusions.’ With that, he simply released his grip on the steering oar and barrelled down the starboard side of the boat.
Not for the first time, Rio cried out, ‘Oh, not again!’ Yet this time he wasn’t able to step in and take over immediately. He was well to the front of the craft and had all his efforts on keeping his footing as it veered sharply to the right. And then he too heard the shooting down river. ‘Perhaps we should pull in to the bank, boss,’ he called. ‘Just until we find out what’s happening up ahead.’
He might as well have been talking to the man in the moon, because their crazed leader continued on his manic course. This time Baxter had nowhere to run to and like so many he had never learned to swim. As he stared aghast at Teach’s massive figure advancing on him, any semblance of logical thought left him. Instead of drawing a weapon, he dragged his ten-foot long pole from the water and swung it around in a great sweeping blow.
