by Paul Bedford
If it had connected, it would have sent his assailant flying, but Teach merely ducked under it and with a triumphant roar launched himself across the last few feet. Belatedly realizing his mistake, Baxter dropped the pole as though it was made from hot coals, but before he could draw his knife the big man was upon him.
Days of pent up anger and frustration resulted in Teach resorting to the most primeval form of assault. Reaching out, he seized his unfortunate victim by the throat with devastating force. ‘I’m gonna crush you like a bug,’ he informed him through gritted teeth.
‘For Christ’s sake, boss, you’ll kill him,’ Naylor cried out in protest, but he made no attempt to intervene.
Rio might have stepped in, but his prime concern was to save the boat. It was heading straight for the south bank and certain destruction. Just as on the last occasion when he had saved them, he grabbed the steering oar and heaved it over with all his might.
Oblivious to anything other than his constricting airway, Baxter kicked and punched with all his failing strength, but it was to no avail. The great brute had him in a death grip that could have only one outcome. Spittle showered over his face as his assailant cried out in triumph. As the dying man’s vision began to cloud, he instinctively seized his knife and plunged its keen blade into Teach’s side. It proved to be his last action on God’s earth. The huge man howled like the wounded beast that he was, but rather than relinquish his hold he instead pushed Baxter over to the forward gunwale. Then, uttering a great roar, he literally lifted his victim off the deck and hurled him over the side.
Rio had just regained control of the keelboat when two things claimed his attention in quick succession. Necessarily ignoring the desperate struggle in the bow, he peered ahead and suddenly noticed, a short distance downriver, another craft. Only this one appeared to be stationary. With other matters on his mind, it took him a few moments to recognize it for what it was: a ferry connected to both banks by a stout cable. Reacting with a landlubber’s mentality, the realization that the Arkansas was effectively blocked horrified him. With no idea what to do, panic began to surge through his body. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he witnessed Baxter’s corpse hurled over the side and instinctively jerked the steering oar to avoid him.
Up in the front of the boat, Naylor witnessed Baxter’s demise with dismay. Superstitiously crossing himself, he whispered, ‘Adios, compadre. At least you finally took a bath!’
Teach collapsed to his knees, clutching his side. The dead man’s blade remained in his flesh and he was undecided as to how to stem the flow of blood. Whether it was a mortal wound was not immediately apparentt to Naylor, but the scene held his fascinated attention until, to his great surprise he heard raised voices directly in front of them. Glancing downriver, he was absolutely appalled to see a ferry complete with passengers only yards away. One of the men on board was actually pointing a weapon at him, so he dropped down below the gunwale and helplessly waited for the impact.
Sam Torrance had completely lost track of time. The throbbing in his head just never went away and all the time he had to keep checking the horizon for any sign of whoever was trailing him. The sound of gunfire off to the northeast had come as a complete surprise to him, but in a way it was a relief. It meant that there were at least some tangible people up ahead, rather than the mysterious, unseen phantom that he was still convinced was on his tail. Or just maybe he was so far gone that his mind was playing tricks on him.
Wearily, the lawman reined in and glanced up at the sun. Then he spent a while scrutinizing his surroundings. Despite the constant pain, it suddenly came to him that he was back on vaguely familiar territory, which could only mean that John Taggart and his friend appeared to be in some kind of trouble. He had been hoping to get help at the crossing, but it now seemed as though it was the massive ferryman who was in need as well. Torrance shook his head in resignation and instantly regretted it. Then, clutching his homemade rifle, he urged his tired animal forward. He had always prided himself on the fact that he could handle any situation that came his way and now that belief was about to be put to the test!
Brad’s eyes widened like saucers as they settled on the gleaming gold coins in the saddle-bag. He’d never seen so much of anything worth having in one place before. No wonder the son of a bitch next to him was so desperate to get across the river.
‘What is it? What’s he carrying?’ came a call from the riverbank. There was no hiding the eager curiosity in Klee’s voice.
Brad’s mind was suddenly a mass of competing ideas. How could he relieve this stranger of the gold without sharing it with his diminutive companion?
Under the strained circumstances, it was remarkable that anyone actually spotted the new arrival on the river, but a flicker of movement somehow registered in Klee’s peripheral vision. Twitching with surprise, he glanced to his left and suddenly all his attention was taken by the long, sleek craft heading directly towards the ferry.
‘Sweet Jesus! What are they up to?’ he cried out. His concern was genuine, but related more to whatever was in the saddle-bags than to the survival of the men before him. ‘Move your ass, Brad,’ he bellowed out. ‘They’re out to ram you for sure!’
Otherwise occupied, that man glanced around utterly bewildered. Then both he and Decker saw the keelboat and the colour drained from their faces. Temporarily unarmed, Brad could only stare in horror at the vessel slicing through the water towards them. His passenger had a greater range of options. Decker fired one warning shot before desperately searching for a live target. Somehow sensing danger, the horses beside him snickered nervously.
Two men appeared to be sheltering behind the forward gunwale, whilst a third man was at the rear, but he was mostly protected by the central cabin. Cursing vividly, the bank robber got one more shot off, before reluctantly accepting that they were going to be rammed. A louder report sounded on the riverbank, but completely failed to alter the inevitable.
It was then that Russ Decker proved just how resourceful he really was. Hurling his Winchester over to the south bank, he hissed at Brad, ‘You’d better swim for it, fella.’
Brad glanced at him in dismay. ‘I never learned.’
‘Shouldn’t be running a ferry then,’ Decker muttered as he grabbed the saddle-bags off his animal. The keelboat was nearly upon them and timing would be critical.
With the collision mere seconds away, he heard a loud splash and grinned mirthlessly. The new ferry operator had obviously overcome his fear of water and abandoned ship, his career effectively over. Gripping the heavy bags in both hands, Decker swung them around in a full circle and then with a tremendous heave sent them on their way . . . directly into the approaching craft!
With a great rending crash, the inevitable impact occurred. At that very moment he sucked in a deep breath and leapt into the river on the opposite side to Brad and Klee. No one could have foreseen the unlikely outcome of the collision. Drawing such a shallow draft, the keelboat literally rode up over the strongly constructed ferry, bowling Decker’s horses aside as though they were mere skittles. Wrenched from their tethers, the poor creatures screamed in anguish as they plunged into the river, to be swept away like so many men had been that day.
The inertia created by the sheer weight of the silver ore prevented the boat from simply slipping on into the water. Instead it ground to a halt on top of the ferry, which in turn settled just below the surface, still connected to both banks by its thick cable. The fact that that lifeline still remained in place was a bonus for Russ Decker. Clinging to it like a limpet, he stared in amazement at the now conjoined craft and pondered how to recover his ‘Double Eagles’.
Chapter Eleven
Ben Exley couldn’t believe his eyes. Even the throbbing agony in his right hand was temporarily expunged by the extraordinary events on the Arkansas River. Any sane man would have expected to see the whole ‘kit and kaboodle’ drifting off with the current and yet the remaining outlaw and his ill-gotten gains appeared
to be still within reach . . . just!
Glancing around at his surviving agents, he quickly deliberated over which one to send in pursuit. His choice was really very simple, but he hated having to rely on the same man yet again. Sighing, he turned away from the window. One thing was for sure, there was paper money aplenty strewn around the cabin, but no gold.
‘Raoul, I’ve got a big ask for you.’
That man’s reptilian eyes bored into his for a long moment, before he demonstrated yet again that very little escaped his notice. ‘If I go into that river, Mister Exley, I ain’t just on wages anymore.’
The Pinkerton boss recoiled slightly. He had noticed before that once away from civilization the half-breed tracker became kind of uppity, until sometimes Exley wondered just who was in charge. It had to stop and so, although time was short and the situation desperate, he decided he wasn’t prepared to roll over entirely.
‘If you recover some of the bank’s funds, I guarantee you a cash bonus. And if that means swimming the Arkansas, then so be it. Truth is, if it wasn’t for this hand, I’d do it myself.’
As he regarded the dapper agent in his bowler and smart duds, spoilt only by copious bloodstains, Raoul smiled bleakly. He had always considered his boss to be a blowhard city slicker, out of his depth on the frontier and so consequently it wasn’t quite a done deal. ‘And anything Wells Fargo lays claim to counts as well,’ he added pointedly.
Exley gritted his teeth. The raw stump where his trigger finger had been was paining him something awful. ‘Yeah, yeah. Of course,’ he snapped. ‘Just get moving.’
Raoul deliberately held his gaze for a moment longer. He still wasn’t finished. ‘Answer me this. Why don’t we just shoot everything that moves on that boat and then recover the money in our own sweet time?’
Exley’s eyes widened in genuine horror. ‘Because we don’t know who all’s on it, that’s why. We’re paid to enforce the law and those rivermen could simply be honest traders who lost control of it. We can’t just kill everyone that we come across. And when you get over there, you’ll remember that. Clear?’
Raoul favoured him with a thin smile, before bending down to remove his footwear. ‘I guess so, but I sure ain’t risking a pair of ten dollar boots in that river,’ he declared by way of explanation. Turning away, he stowed them under one of the two cots and in doing so slipped his thick wad of twenty-dollar bills tightly inside one of the finely crafted leather boots.
‘You two fellas keep me covered, you hear?’ he growled at the remaining able-bodied agents as he made for the door. ‘This ain’t the day I die in some river!’
Mere seconds before the collision, Naylor got the shock of his worthless life. Seemingly from out of nowhere, two heavy saddle-bags tumbled into view and thumped down on the deck next to him. But that was far from all. One of the pouches hadn’t been fastened properly and as it flew through the air, gold coins suddenly cascaded over him. The outlaw’s jaw literally dropped in amazement and his tongue flopped moronically into view, as though he intended to taste his unexpected windfall.
Then one craft hit the other with a shocking impact that jarred Naylor’s teeth together. The trauma of biting through his own tongue drained all the colour from his face and temporarily blotted out any thoughts of the gold. The bow of the keelboat then rode up over the ferry, sending the two horses on it careering into the water. Naylor, whose mouth was now foaming with blood, helplessly rolled backwards. All the while there was a tremendous creaking and groaning sound, as though the timbers beneath him were actually alive and suffering.
Ed Teach was also bleeding profusely from the wound in his side, but his eyes lit up with glee at the sight of the glorious ‘Double Eagles’. Even the great impact failed to deflect his rapt attention. Every man and his dog knew that gold was worth far more than the stinking silver ore that they had saddled themselves with. What happened next, however, did give him something else to think on.
The soaking wet figure of Russ Decker suddenly vaulted over the gunwale. In his right hand he clutched a cocked revolver. ‘I don’t know who you stupid sons of bitches are, but those saddle bags belong to me, so back off!’
Naylor, still addled by pain and shock, mumbled something unintelligible. Flecks of his blood landed on some of the coins, which found little favour with Decker.
‘I said back off, you dumb bastard.’ He stared at him curiously. ‘What ails you, anyhow?’
‘Mu, mu,’ was Naylor’s pathetic attempt at conversation, but it did serve to claim Decker’s momentary interest.
Ed Teach, having already decided that the gold was now his, took the opportunity to draw his revolver, but blood loss and pain slowed him down. Even as he cleared leather, the movement registered on Decker’s peripheral vision. The bank robber turned to his left and dropped the hammer. To his great relief, the cartridge had remained watertight and detonated with a satisfying crash.
The heavy bullet struck Teach in his chest. Already weakened by the knife thrust, he stared down in stunned amazement as blood seeped out of the latest hole in his body.
‘Everything’s against me today,’ he muttered plaintively, before falling face down onto the deck. As luck would have it, he died with a gold ‘Double Eagle’ pressing firmly into his grubby forehead.
It was gunfire on or near the river that alerted him to a changing situation. As John Taggart stealthily made his way back along the bank, he was utterly appalled at the sight of a rogue poleboat heading straight for his ferry. He only just stifled a warning cry. Jacob’s diminutive killer was standing guard further down the bank, his attention fully occupied by the events on the river and Taggart wanted to keep it that way. Besides, those on the ferry were no friends of his. He flinched as the inevitable collision occurred, but maintained his silence. The ferry could be rebuilt, but he would have to be alive to do it.
It was said that nobody knew how to hate like an Indian, but as the massive ferryman moved in on his prey, his heart was filled with venom. The man before him had murdered his only true friend and now he would pay. A single shot rang out on the keelboat and Klee took aim, but held his fire. He was obviously not directly threatened and choosing to wait on events.
‘Well he won’t have to wait much longer,’ Taggart decided. Staying low, so as to remain hidden from those on the river, he moved around in a wide arc that kept him behind the little bastard. Josh’s Colt was cocked and ready in its new owner’s hand. Taking it in a two-handed grip, that man aimed directly at Klee’s back. His finger was just tightening on the trigger when a bearded face unexpectedly appeared over the brow of the banking. Even though sodden and bedraggled, it was still immediately recognizable.
Brad’s eyes betrayed his sudden shock at the scene before him and provided his partner with a warning of sorts. Klee, his reactions honed from years on the dodge, twisted around to face his assailant with the speed of a cat, but even that wasn’t fast enough. Taggart’s bullet tore into his right shoulder. The agony that coursed through his right arm caused the scrawny cuss to drop his heavy rifle. Taggart, noting that Brad appeared to be unarmed, concentrated all his fury on Jacob’s killer.
‘You’ve got this coming, you little runt,’ he snarled. Cocking and firing in one fluid motion, he deliberately placed another piece of lead straight into Klee’s other shoulder. ‘That was for Jacob and all the other poor southern boys you’ve harmed!’ The little man’s eyes bulged in their sockets as he tried to comprehend what was happening to him, but the pain surging through his tortured body was overwhelming. As he tottered feebly backwards, his persecutor added, ‘And this is for me.’
The third bullet struck Klee’s skull. The little man died messily, but without a sound, his shattered body toppling backwards into the Arkansas River. As luck would have it, he entered the water in exactly the same place as his one-armed victim had earlier that day. Although nodding with satisfaction, John Taggart felt a strange emptiness come over him. He might have avenged his friend, but nothing was goin
g to bring him back again. And yet he was to be allowed little time for reflection.
Taking advantage of Taggart’s pre-occupation, Brad charged towards him and kicked his feet out from under. The massive ferryman went down like a felled oak, dropping his revolver in the process, but the outlaw had sense enough to recognize that he was unlikely to come out on top in a fistfight. Playing safe, he went for the rifle that he had coveted so much after the grisly death of Jonas Bills. As his hands closed around the heavy weapon, he turned to finish the job . . . and found his opponent not only back on his feet, but coming straight for him.
Instinctively, Brad knew that he wouldn’t be able to level the rifle in time, so instead he swung it around at head height. Unfortunately for him, his enemy was taller even than Abe Lincoln had been and so the stock merely slammed into a solid shoulder. Taggart grunted with pain and recoiled slightly. He was still struggling to recover the wind that had been knocked out of him. Brad kept on coming and unleashed another swing. On this occasion, the big man managed to block it and at the same time grab hold of the barrel. Brad was no lightweight himself and he had enough power and momentum behind him to force Taggart back to the ground. Desperately the two men struggled in the grass for possession of the Winchester.
‘I should have killed you days ago when I had the chance,’ the ferryman spat out.
‘What the hell’s happening over there?’ Ben Exley had been watching Raoul as that man dragged his way across the fast flowing river, but was now distracted by the outbreak of violence on the far bank. One thing was for sure; he and his men would no longer be under threat from that quarter. ‘You two, get back out there,’ he commanded. ‘Cover Raoul, but no shooting unless I say so. With luck they’ll all kill each other, without us having to do anything.’
