by Ron Schwab
He had instructed George to kill the captives, including the Connolly bitch, and leave them where they fell in the coop. He wanted that accomplished by the next afternoon. The Indian tried to convince him to let them live for now and leave them locked up in the coop. They would starve and die eventually, but George didn’t think that made him a murderer. It wasn’t the same as pulling the trigger.
Boss informed George he was going to personally visit the chick coop early afternoon to verify the job was completed. Of course, Boss expected to be halfway to Denver by then. He also ordered the execution of Solly, Spud and Fred. If Bull were not his brother, he would have been on the death warrant, too. He worried about George’s nephew, Willy. The kid seemed soft for the work he had been recruited into, and he might cave. On the other hand, he knew George had been conniving to take over the bootlegging enterprises and, as the contact man, was in a position to step in and work with the low-level flunkies. If he kept the kid close, George should be able to keep Willy’s mouth shut.
He was staying clear of Bull for a long time, maybe forever. His brother knew there was a hefty bank account waiting for him in Cheyenne if the big lout had enough sense to get there.
His bags packed, Boss stepped back and took a last nostalgic look at his office. Remembering he had left his pistol in the desk drawer, he stepped behind the desk and sat down just as the office door opened. A tall, lanky cowboy with a deputy sheriff’s badge pinned on his chest stepped in.
The man tipped his hat. “Mr. Bullock, I am Deputy Sheriff Bing Compton. I would like to speak with you.”
“How did you get in here? Where’s your warrant?”
He reached in the back pocket of his faded blue jeans and pulled out a folded document. “I do have a search warrant.”
“You go ahead and search. I have a train to catch.”
“I will want to check the contents of your suitcases.”
Boss’s hand slipped into the desk drawer and emerged with the pistol. He raised the weapon to fire, but thunder roared in his ears, and an invisible force drove into his shoulder and toppled him from his chair before he could squeeze the trigger. His gun dropped from his hand and clattered on the floor. He was sprawled on his back before the pain erupted in his right shoulder. The fingers of his left hand instinctively reached for the hurting and came up wet and bloody.
“Didn’t kill the son-of-a-bitch,” came a voice from above him. “Didn’t try to.”
Boss could make out a mustachioed, weathered face standing over him.
“Good shooting, Sam,” the deputy said. “Damn glad you followed me in. I’ll use his phone to ring up the hospital to get somebody over to cart him off.”
The old guy knelt beside him now and started pressing a handkerchief against the wound, trying to stem the blood flow. “Seen a lot worse than this,” he said.
“You’ll make it to trial and won’t see anything but prison walls after that.”
“I’m going check out these suitcases,” the deputy said.
The Rapid City Gang was dead.
Chapter 43
KATE
Sleep evaded Kate, Marta and Raven that night. Olive had evidently escaped into the darkness, but it could be several days before she brought help. Unfortunately, she did not know the location of the road that provided the nearest access. Maybelle was still unconscious but tossed and groaned restlessly throughout the night. Kate had moistened the corner of a blanket with precious drinking water and gently washed the woman’s bloody, swollen face. The battered forehead and face were obvious to the touch but barely visible in the pale moonlight that sifted to the cave’s rear, but the feel of the misshapen nose reminded her of a scrunched pig’s snout. Kate realized Maybelle had to be stopped, but she doubted she could have brought herself to do it with such brutality. Marta seemed annoyed by Kate’s ministrations, and Raven simply watched curiously.
Marta said, “In a few hours daylight will arrive and, soon after, the water and the bread. If they do not see us all, they may call for the missing to come out. Then they will know that Olive is absent, and Maybelle is injured.”
Kate said. “They cannot catch Olive. By this time, she is free, whatever else happens.”
“The ‘whatever else’ is what concerns me. The men are upset about something. Something has gotten in the way of their plans. They may decide to kill us all.”
“I agree. And when they learn Olive is gone, that could end the delay. I think the other girls should be told of the dangers we all face. They must be convinced to help us.”
“I will awaken them and tell them what happened and make it clear they will die if they do not help us. But then what do we do?”
“They cannot kill us without coming in here or taking us outside.”
“Make them come to us.”
By sunrise Marta had recruited more reluctant soldiers, who would likely desert if the battle took an unhappy turn. But at least they would not be belligerent draft resisters.
When they heard the water buckets clanging as their keepers approached, Marta summoned the others to the front, leaving Raven with a big stone clutched in her hand to tend to Maybelle should she awaken. Kate had no doubt the girl would strike without hesitation. She wished Maybelle an uninterrupted slumber.
Kate had suggested they all be armed with rocks heavy enough to inflict damage and light enough to swing with ease. There were ample weapons on the cave floor, and a stone was easily held in one hand concealed beneath the blanket that was clutched about the shoulders with the other.
She was not disappointed to see that Spud and Willy were designated feeders this morning. She suspected Spud’s ancestors had shorted him on brains, and Willy clearly was not a natural in the criminal world. He, in fact, appeared to be unarmed, but Spud carried both a Winchester and a sidearm. Willy set down his two buckets and inserted a key in the padlock that fastened the ends of the heavy chain that held the gate to the iron loop imbedded in the rock wall. When the lock opened, he shoved the key in his pocket and left the padlock hanging on one end of the chain. Willy carried two buckets through the partially-opened gate, while Spud remained just outside. Kate could see the man was puzzled and was scrutinizing the cave’s interior. Perhaps, she had underestimated him.
Willy had just placed the third bucket inside and dumped the bread on the cave’s floor when Spud said, “Hold it.”
“What?” Willy said.
“We’re short three. Where’s the others?”
“They’re sick,” Kate said. “Puking up their guts and got the runs.”
“I want them out here.”
“They’re too weak. Can’t walk.”
“Willy,” Spud said, “get your ass back there and take a look.”
“Me? Why me? Go look for yourself.”
Spud stepped just inside the gate and leveled his Winchester at Willy. “This here gun says you do it.”
“I’ll show you,” Kate said and started walking toward the rear of the cave with Willy following cautiously and nervously behind. She looked back just long enough to see Marta pounce like a panther on Spud and drop him to the ground while his victims swarmed the hapless man, hammering him with their rocks. The war had started.
Willy wheeled around when he heard the ruckus behind him.
“Do not yell or you will be dead before help arrives,” Kate said. “We do not want to harm you.”
Marta was already swinging the gate shut and pressing the padlock closed on the chain.
“Give me the key,” Kate told Willy. He reached in his pocket and complied.
”Now we continue our stroll to the back of the cave.”
Marta and two other girls were dragging Spud not far behind. The other two were retrieving the bread and water, along with the abandoned Winchester. When they gathered, Kate confirmed Spud was alive, likely in better shape than Maybelle. Esther Quail, a previously beaten-down sixteen-year old, with a new spark in her eyes, handed the Winchester to Kate. “Marta says you shou
ld have this.”
Kate looked at Marta, who nodded back. She accepted the weapon gratefully.
Kate turned to Willy, who, with a perplexed look on his face, stood amidst the angry females. “Take off your clothes, Willy. To the last stitch.”
“Everything?”
“If you want a chance at living through this.”
Willy started prying off his boots, and then slowly stripped himself naked, while the Sioux girls began peeling Spud’s clothing off his prone form. Marta divided up the garments, tossing Willy’s shirt to Kate. “You can’t be struggling with your blanket if you have to use the rifle.” It was a practical decision, but Kate felt a bit guilty wearing something that covered to mid-thighs. Marta claimed Spud’s shirt, which was broad enough to cover her generous bust, but, because of their disparate heights, did not fully cover her buttocks. A few of the girls got socks. Raven was endowed with Willy’s hat and britches and seemed delighted with the treasures. The pudgy girl, who had been raped by Spud two nights previous, wore his trousers proudly.
They shredded a blanket and, with the salvaged strips and belts, bound and gagged the men. Spud showed signs of coming around, and Marta said they would take no chances.
When they were finished, Marta approached Kate. “I still am not certain this is the right thing. I think we should have run.”
“They would have seen us. Some would have been shot down. Maybe all of us.”
“Some would have made it.”
They had argued about this during the night. Marta insisted that if the plan worked they should all flee through the open gate. Kate maintained they could hold out in the cave for several days, if necessary, and that the possibility of saving all outweighed the near certainty that some would die. Olive would bring help. They had finally agreed they would run if they could not capture a gun. But the Winchester was in Kate’s hands, and she had already decided where the first shot was headed.
Marta held Spud’s pistol but had never fired one before. Kate explained the workings and suggested Marta only attempt to fire if they were overrun.
Kate figured it was little more than a half hour later when the Sioux they called George peered through the gate’s bars. He was outlined perfectly against the sunlit cave opening, and she was prone on the floor, hidden in the shadows at the cave’s rear. She could have taken him down easily, but not yet.
“Willy. Spud. Where are you?” George called.
Marta, from behind the branch-off corner, called back, “They’re back here.”
“Well, tell them to get their butts out here.”
“They have decided to stay here.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“We are holding Spud and Willy hostage until you and the others leave this place.”
“That ain’t going to happen. No way. If you don’t turn them loose, we’ll come charging in there, guns blazing. There won’t be one of you bitches left standing.”
“Sorry, George Many Knives, they will not be coming out. And, yes, I know your full name. And so does Olive. She escaped last night and is on her way to bring the law.”
“You’re lying.”
“I will let your nephew reply to that.” Marty removed the gag from Willy’s mouth. “Tell your uncle, Willy.”
“Uncle George?”
“I hear you, boy. How did you fools get in this predicament?”
“They tricked us in here and jumped us.”
“Enough.” Marta snapped. “Tell him about Olive.”
Willy yelled, “They’re one short, Uncle George. I don’t know her name. But somebody got out. I’m sure of it.”
“I want to hear it from Spud. He knows the chicks.”
“Spud’s out cold. Or dead. Same with your stoolie. These are mean women, Uncle George.”
Marta and Raven worked the gag back over Willy’s mouth.
Another man stepped up beside George. “What’s the trouble?” he asked. Her target.
She took a bead, but the men moved away from the gate and were joined by the others. She could hear them arguing. One sounded particularly excited. “I say we get the hell out.”
“No witnesses,” George bellowed.
Her target marched over to the gate, aimed his pistol at the padlock and fired. He either missed or didn’t crack the lock. He moved nearer and squeezed the trigger. This time the lock snapped, and the chain unwound, and the gates slid open a few feet. He stepped into the entrance, and the others converged behind him.
“No more games,” he yelled. “Get out here.”
Kate squeezed the trigger twice, confident both struck home. Two blots of blood appeared on the target’s chest, and Solly Cleaver looked down in disbelief before his knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor.
Chapter 44
TREY
As soon as we heard gunfire, Gramps and I snatched up our guns and headed up the craggy mountainside. “How far, do you think, Gramps?” I asked.
“Hard to say with the echo in this canyon, but closer than I thought.”
In less than a half hour we could hear voices above us, and we stopped to listen. I could not understand what they were saying, but it seemed that a man and a woman were exchanging words. “I think one of us needs to get above them,” I said. I pointed to traces of a deer trail that veered easterly from the creek and twisted up the slope. “I’m going to work my way up. You stay with this trail and see if you can move in from below. Maybe we can trap them in a crossfire.”
Gramps looked at me with those steely eyes that said he thought he was better suited for my task, but he pinched his lips tight and nodded. I turned away and set out on the path I had chosen, and, out of the corners of my eyes, I saw he was trudging onward. It was Gramps who had taught me about deer trails on the Wyoming ranch. The animals blazed paths that were generally sensible and convenient for all creatures to follow, and I realized now I had given Gramps the tougher of the options. This was the easiest walking I had enjoyed for a spell.
As I worked my way up the incline, I tried to walk quietly, a challenge if you are wearing cowboy boots. I remembered now that I thought it strange that Gramps had abandoned his boots for moccasins before we sent Olive on her way. I had asked him if he wasn’t going to bruise his feet on the sharp stones, and, as usual when he thought a question not worthy of reply, he had not responded. No doubt my feet hurt more than his after all these miles, and my quarry could probably hear me coming from a mile away.
I mused that I had not heard gunshots since the first two that pushed us on the move again. My musing ended abruptly when gunfire broke out, more shots than a man could count. And the racket was no longer above me or far away. It came from off to my left someplace. I stepped off the trail and inched northwesterly through the ponderosa.
The gunfire stopped, and a man’s raspy voice said, “You’d just as well come out gals. That was a taste of how it’s going to be. We got ammunition and food and drink. We can wait you out if we got to. I figure you ain’t got more than a dozen cartridges for that Winchester.”
A rifle cracked, and I assumed that was the reply. I crept through the trees and undergrowth, and I came upon the scene, something over fifty feet distant, I guessed. And there was the chick coop. A huge hole in a rock wall, closed off by a gate with long steel bars spiked at the top. The entrance was off a wide ledge, where three men, obviously taking care not to step directly in front of the opening, waited with rifles in their hands. Another man lay directly in front of the gate, and I crossed him off as a threat.
I cast my eyes about and caught sight of a trail that wound its way up to the ledge from my side, probably the one that led to the vehicles that delivered the captives. This also suggested there was a car or two parked at the end of the trail, where somebody might run to escape. I decided they would have to go over me first. I wondered where Gramps was. Like a fool, I had not prearranged a signal. My answer came when plumes of thick, black smoke started reaching for the clear, azure
sky from below the opposite side of the ledge. The captors saw it, too, and one of the men hurried toward the smoke.
While their attention was focused on the smoke, I broke from my cover, raced for the chick coop path, and moved in on the outlaws. The smoke-chaser had disappeared over the ledge, and the others still had their backs toward me. I could have taken them down right there, but I felt I should try to take them alive.
An explosion roared through the mountains, stinging my ears for a moment. The shotgun. Evidently, Gramps was unconcerned about the etiquette of taking live prisoners.
I yelled at the two survivors. “Bureau of Investigation. Drop your weapons. Now.”
A tall man with a bandaged hand dropped his instantly and raised his hands in surrender. The other wheeled and got off a shot before I placed my own between his eyes, and he tumbled backwards. Not to brag, but, from the time I was a ten-year old, I was the best shot in the Ramsey family. Even Gram Skye with only her one hand to work with could outshoot Gramps with a rifle. I suppose that’s why he lugged that shotgun up the mountain.
I walked up to the big man, who was whining like a kicked pup, and took his pistol from its holster and picked up the rifles and tossed them some distance away. “Sit down and stay put, if you don’t want to end up like your friend.”
“Yes, sir. No problems coming from me, sir.”
He sat down and clasped his hands behind his head like he had some experience at that sort of thing. I was looking down at the other man, who looked up at me with three eyes. Indian. Presumably Oglala Sioux. I wondered if he was the one who tried to abduct the president. Gramps came up and said, “Damn fine shooting. Still got the touch.”
“Thanks, I guess.” I had never killed a man before, and it was not a good feeling. I wondered if I would be able to repeat the act if called upon. “Let’s get the chicks out of the coop.”
