by Dale Graham
Cody Meek gave the remark a spirited nod of accord. ‘There’s plenty of money to be made from all the trail herds coming up from Texas. . . .’
‘. . . but the cowboys don’t like the fact that Wichita has been placed under a no-gun ruling by the town marshal,’ added Blaine.
‘And on top of that,’ Meek cut in again, ‘all places of entertainment have to close up by midnight, even at weekends. Once they come up against all these damn blasted rules they start drifting over the river to Delano where anything still goes.’
‘So I noticed,’ the newcomer remarked nonchalantly.
‘Wichita used to be like that,’ Blaine continued, ‘and we want those days back which means getting rid of the starpacker.’
Lobo couldn’t contain a bout of ribald laughter.
‘What’s so danged funny?’ Meek hollered out. ‘This ain’t no joke, mister.’
‘You guys are like a stage double act. You crease me up.’ He slapped his left thigh gleefully.
But Perry Blaine was not fazed. He still had an ace up his sleeve and played it with panache. ‘You won’t be so offhand when I tell you the name of this tinstar. I have a distinct feeling you’ve come across him before.’ Blaine deliberately paused holding the other man’s gaze, knowing that Lobo was hanging fire for the revelation. The showman was an expert when it came to working an audience.
The cutting retort had the desired effect. Lobo’s cynical joviality evaporated like money from a cowboy’s pocket.
‘So are you gonna spill or not?’ the gunman rasped out, trying to keep the curiosity from his retort.
‘Ever heard of a guy called . . . Bear River Cal Bonner?’
The wide-eyed stare told the two men all they needed to know. ‘And we’re prepared to offer you 2,000 bucks to remove him from the picture.’
Lobo turned around to hide the shock cloaking his swarthy features. He twirled the long moustache while walking across the room to pour himself another drink. Such a disclosure needed a liberal shot before any response could be given. Extracting a handkerchief from his back pocket he casually buffed the conchos lining his black leather vest. It was a reflex action that gave him time to consider this startling revelation.
‘Two grand?’ the gunman eventually coughed out. ‘Is that all? Don’t seem much to me for the extra trade I’m going to be bringing in by removing this jasper.’
‘Make it three then,’ Meek interrupted, panic clawing at his throat. ‘But that’s as far as we’re going.’
Lobo hawked out a mirthless guffaw. ‘You guys sure are eager to have your town back. Seems to me the kind of help I can offer deserves a much higher reward. Especially when you’re calling for the removal of Cal Bonner.’
Blaine stiffened. He had a brooding suspicion where this was heading. ‘You can’t hold us to ransom. There are other guys out there who would do this for half what we’re offering.’
‘So where are they?’ The scornful demand received no answer, merely a pair of frustrated grimaces. ‘I thought not. Cal Bonner is no greenhorn as I’m sure you’ve already discovered. You could send for another hired gun, but that could take time. And he’d just as likely pick up the same drift as me.’
‘Get to the point, Lobo,’ Meek rapped out. ‘What are you really after?’
‘Nothing too much. Just an equal share in the business you guys have going here. Once Bonner is out of the way, I aim to stick around. Reckon I’m gonna like it around here. Especially when you appoint me marshal in his place.’
‘That’s blackmail,’ rasped Meek. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘I just did, and I ain’t changing my mind. Now shake on it or I walk.’
‘You don’t want much, do you?’ Blaine exclaimed half-heartedly knowing this guy had them over a barrel.
Lobo shrugged. ‘It’s just business far as I’m concerned. And we can all make a heap of dough into the bargain. So is it a deal?’
Meek looked somewhat downcast at his partner. They had been herded up a box canyon with only one way out. ‘Guess so. But we want the job done quickly. This town has been quiet for too long already.’
The deal was clinched by a handshake. ‘I’ll get over to the hotel and settle in before figuring out my plan of action. See you later . . . pards.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Coal Bank Trickery
In the bar adjacent to the National Hotel later that day, Lobo was to discover something that momentarily left him staggered. Uncharacteristic of the ruthless gunman, he was totally bereft of any reply.
Argo Creede, the barman, was regaling him with the recent attempts by various factions to remove Cal Bonner from the picture. Like all bartenders Argo loved the sound of his own voice. The incident involving Wyoming Bill and his accomplices was explained in all its lurid detail. But it was his final comment that so stunned the hired gunslinger.
‘Before those three mossyhorns came to grief outside on the street, some hotshot tried to ambush the marshal while he was in the barber’s shop.’ The barman chuckled to himself. ‘That guy didn’t stand a chance against a sharp cookie like Cal Bonner. The marshal took him down with his eyes closed – cool as you please just sitting in the barber’s chair. And he did it with a Derringer. Clipper Jim told me all about it.’
‘This fella seems like one real tough hombre,’ declared Lobo sipping his beer. He struggled not to let his disdain show.
‘You can say that again,’ the appreciative beer-tapper advocated with relish. ‘He’s managed to make this town fit for decent folks to live in.’
‘And single-handedly as well,’ added a dark-suited guy further down the bar. ‘Hiring Bear River Cal was the best appointment the town council ever made. Although there are some in Wichita who would prefer he was a permanent resident in the cemetery.’
‘You talking about those saloon johnnys across the street, Doc?’ said Creede.
‘I sure am. And there are more like them as well,’ the medic advocated, taking a gentle sip of sherry.
‘Well, their kind ain’t welcome in the National,’ blustered Creede, stamping his foot to emphasize his support for the current regime.
Lobo maintained a neutral demeanour. They were clearly referring to the jaspers with whom he had hooked up. It seemed that in the National Hotel bar at least Bonner still had enough support to keep a lid on things.
‘That bushwhacker sure learned the hard way that going up against the marshal is bad for your health.’
‘And you should know about that, eh Doc? Is the bushwhacking skunk fit enough to stand trial yet?’ enquired Creede while enthusiastically polishing a glass. ‘I heard he’d taken a slug in the shoulder.’
‘The circuit judge ain’t due for another month,’ replied Doc Bailey. ‘But he’ll be well enough to serve a good long term in the state pen at Leavenworth by then.’
‘It might make him see the error of his ways,’ commented the barman.
The medic shook his head. ‘Guys like that never learn. Sure as that hair on your head came out of a box, Argo, they always end up face down in the mud just like those foolish cowpokes.’
Creede’s hand automatically lifted to his head. A hurt look graced his rubicund features. ‘Hey! No need to tell the whole world, Doc,’ protested the self-conscious barkeep. ‘This peruke was hand made in St Louis. Cost me all of fifty bucks.’
‘They saw you coming,’ said Lobo, joining in the hilarity.
‘A pity Browny Jagus didn’t have more sense as well,’ remarked Doc Bailey finishing his drink. ‘Anyway, I’ll be off on my rounds now, Argo. No rest for the pure in heart.’ And with that unconscious parting shot across the bows, Doc Bailey departed leaving Lobo ashen-faced. The gunman clutched at the bar rail to stop himself falling over. Such was the shock of learning that his own brother had been the topic of conversation.
‘Something wrong, mister?’ the concerned barman enquired. ‘You look like you’ve lost a gold watch and found a dime.’
The hired gunman quickly fough
t off the dizziness threatening to engulf him. ‘Just a bit tired is all. Guess I need some sleep after my hard ride to get here.’
The answer appeared to satisfy Argo Creede. He splashed a measure of brandy into a glass. ‘Drink this down. It’ll soon clear your head. And it’s on the house seeing as you’re a guest in the hotel.’
‘Much obliged.’ Lobo nodded his thanks slinging the shot down in one gulp. ‘Boy, I sure needed that.’
But not for the reason you’re thinking, compadre, he thought. The notion that his brother had attempted and failed miserably to do the job he himself was now contemplating was difficult to absorb. But getting shot up and facing imprisonment – it was a lot to take in. His cheeks flushed as the hard liquor took a hold. But the snort had done its work. Gone was the glassy-eyed look. Instead it was replaced by an ice-cold glint that spoke of dire retribution heading in the direction of Bear River Cal Bonner.
Now Lobo had two reasons for ridding the world of that fluke-ridden chancer. And he was going to enjoy every goldarned second watching his life blood drain away. This was no longer just another paid job of work.
It had become personal. Shooting down both of the Valdez brothers was the worst mistake that skunk had ever made.
‘Reckon I’ll hit the sack,’ the drinker declared, levering himself off the bar.
Hearing the disquieting revelation concerning his brother had shaken Miguel Valdez to the core. He acknowledged Creed’s ‘Good night’ with a languid wave of the hand and wandered upstairs to his room. Time was needed to reflect on how best to tackle this slippery town tamer.
Throwing off his jacket and hanging the gunbelt on the end of the brass bed head, he lay down. Eyes closed, his mind drifted back some four years. Back to the Animas Valley and the mining boom town of Silverton, Colorado. That was where his fateful clash with Cal Bonner had occurred.
Lobo had drifted east out of Nevada into the mountain fastness of the San Juans seeking a change of scenery. As with most boom towns, the glory days of Virginia City were fading. He was hoping that some of the wealth being dug out of the ground in the new Colorado strikes would find itself into his pockets.
But not as a tenderfoot miner with all the hard grafting that entailed. No sirree! The Comstock had taught him much in the way of skimming off the cream without much effort. And a swift gun hand was the key. Soon after arriving in Silverton, solid written testimonials from previous employers had secured him the job of bodyguard to the owner of the Leopard Skin saloon.
It was in his second week that Lobo overheard a conversation between two miners discussing a recent large gold discovery at the Pandora Mine up in the mountains.
‘Old Tom Hickey has sure struck it rich up there,’ one grizzled veteran advocated.
‘How’s he moving the stuff out?’ enquired his partner, whose equally wizened face was like hammered bronze.
‘He’s hired a guard to drive the load down to the smelter in Durango,’ came back the sceptical reply.
‘Only one guard? He’s taking a big chance,’ was the jaundiced verdict. ‘My bet is some jasper will snatch the lot afore the month is out.’
His buddy nodded in agreement. ‘I’ll drink to that, pal. And I’ll bet you the prize nugget we found in the rocker box last week that the heist will be pulled off at Coal Bank Pass.’
‘No chance, pal,’ his pard averred firmly. ‘I was just about to say that myself.’
That was all Lobo needed to know. Dollar signs flashed before his eyes. Greed and what he judged were easy pickings made up his mind that those two old timers would soon be regaling all and sundry about their dire prediction. No doubt the story would earn them free drinks for a week.
This would be the bodyguard’s first foray into outright robbery since he and his brother had parted company. But this caper appeared to be a giveaway – one guard for all that gold? It was almost too good to be true.
And it was just that. What the gunman and the two old timers had failed to realize was that Tom Hickey was no greenhorn miner. He was well aware that there would be lawless factions keen to relieve him of such a lucrative cargo.
Cal Bonner was on his way to Cripple Creek where a vigilance committee needed a more permanent law enforcement officer. He had stopped off at Pandora and got talking to Hickey in the local diner. Bonner’s reputation was such that he was hired on the spot for a sizeable fee to transport the load down to the smelter at Durango. It would only take up a brief spell of the lawman’s time so he had readily agreed.
Before he set out on the arduous trek down the valley, Hickey offered him a poignant piece of wisdom. ‘Take particular care going over Coal Bank Pass. That’s where most of the previous trouble has occurred.’
‘I’ll remember that. Much obliged, Tom,’ the starpacker replied, slapping the leathers. ‘I’ll see you in ten days, all being well. And with a heap of dough.’
‘Get back safely and there’ll be a bonus in your pay packet.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’
On the third day out, the wagon was trundling through the narrow rift which was the highest point of the southbound trail after leaving Silverton. Cal slowed the wagon down. His muscles tensed knowing this was the danger spot advocated by Tom Hickey. His rifle was resting against his right leg ready for instant use should the need arise. At the same time, a hawkish gaze flicked across the bleak mountain pass. The ravages of time had scored a deep rift through the soaring turrets of rock. On either side massed ranks of aspen and pine clung to the steep slopes offering effective cover for a potential ambusher.
Cal reckoned that a shot from cover would need to be within a hundred yards of its target to ensure a positive hit. A brisk estimate pointed to a cluster of rocks at the head of the pass just before the trail meandered down towards the Hermosa trading post a day’s ride beyond. Over to his left, the afternoon sun glinted off the snow-capped Hesperus Summit towering majestically above the remote setting.
But it was a sudden flash of light that caught the haulier’s attention. It had come from the rocks he had previously eyeballed as a potential hazard. The short-lived flare could have been anything – glass, a discarded tin can. But suspicion made the lawman focus his gaze. Moments later it happened again at the exact same spot – a reflection made by the sun on what had to be the barrel of a rifle. A trio of jays lifted skyward, squawking at some disturbance in the vicinity. Here was proof in Cal’s mind that danger lurked therein.
His face split in a tight smile. ‘You were right, old man,’ he muttered under his breath. So how to deal with this skulking sidewinder? Another fifty yards and he would be within effective rifle range. He continued onward for as long as he dared before reining the wagon to a halt. The Henry was jammed into his shoulder and a couple of shots despatched in the general direction of the bushwhacker’s hideout.
Then he jumped down to shelter behind the wagon. And he was just in the nick of time. Pieces of wood flew every which way, chewed off the wagon by the hidden gunman’s retaliation. Now it was a question of playing one of the oldest tricks in the book. But would the critter fall for it?
Removing his hat, Cal stuck it on his rifle and poked the high crown above the wagon rim. It immediately attracted a half-dozen well placed shots that cut the headgear to pieces. A cry of pain rang out, echoing off the rock walls of the pass. Nothing happened for ten minutes. Then the steady pad of approaching feet told Cal that his adversary had taken the bait.
He lay face down on the ground behind the wagon, but with his gun hand hidden and clutching one of his pistols. Seconds felt like hours as the possum feigned death. The boots halted right next to the supposedly dead body.
‘Never figured that robbing a gold shipment would be so simple,’ the hoodwinked killer breezed, chuckling to himself. ‘Easy as taking candy from a baby.’ A boot idly reached out to toe the body over onto its back. And that was when Lobo got the shock of his life.
‘A sight easier to fool a yellow dog like you, mister,’ the c
adaver voiced, lifting the pistol. ‘They say that the old tricks are the best, but I never thought anybody was stupid enough to fall for it. Seems like there’s still one dim-witted asshole around.’ The hearty grin dissolved being replaced by a grim resolve. ‘Now step back and drop your piece. You’re under arrest.’
The gunman reeled back. But he quickly recovered his wits. ‘Nobody’s taking me in,’ he blurted out, lifting the Remington.
Cal’s gun spat flame. It was an accurate shot smashing the pistol in the killer’s hand and removing his little finger. Lobo cried out, grabbing at the injured hand. Terror gripped a watching family of rabbits, which scooted back inside their burrow.
The intended victim of the ambush jumped to his feet and laid his revolver across the exposed head of his assailant. With Lobo now out for the count, Cal wrapped the jigger’s own bandanna around the bloody stump before trussing him up tighter than a showgirl’s corset. The inert hulk was then heaved into the back of the wagon. The stink of burnt powder hung in the air as a heavy silence once again descended over the remote mountain pass.
The winner of the brief showdown sat on a nearby rock and sucked hard on a roll-up to calm his jangling nerves. A belt of whisky from a hip flask also helped to bring his racing heartbeat back to normal. Cal had faced down many guys who had harboured evil intent. But this was the first time he had been attacked from an ambush. Coming out on top was good for morale but hard on the old ticker.
Once he had recovered his composure, Cal climbed back onto the wagon. He slapped the leathers, urging the team of four back into motion. The jolting elicited a groan from the inept bandit who had regained consciousness only to find himself a helpless dupe. Hate-filled eyes peered back at his captor.
‘Think on it this way, buster,’ Cal intoned cheerily. ‘At least you managed to get your wish. Wallowing in a heap of gold. Pity you won’t get to spend any of it.’ A belt of hollow laughter bounced off the rock walls encompassing the Coal Bank.
