by Sam Clancy
‘I believe you folks were told what would happen if you tried anything,’ Travers said. ‘I do believe the next shot that is fired will kill whoever it hits.’
Travers started to make his way through the crowd to stand beside Ford.
‘Time to leave,’ he observed.
‘You could say that. Let’s go.’
Travers stood in the doorway and covered the angry mob as they spilled out, while Ford mounted, then Ford did the same for Travers.
‘You ready?’ Ford asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Let’s ride.’
Heartbeats later, they were thundering along the dusty road out of town with the crowd shouting angrily after them.
Travers poked at the small fire with a stick. Flames leaped into the air, and small embers floated skyward with the almost invisible smoke.
‘What do we do now?’ he asked Ford.
The deputy marshal shrugged. ‘Damned if I know. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Head back to Bender’s Gulch?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or you could wait here,’ a voice said from out of the dark.
Both men dropped hands to their weapons which came clear of leather.
A tall man in a suit stepped into the circle of firelight. ‘Take it easy, gentlemen. I’m just the messenger. Mind you, Marshal, you sure know how to handle yourself. Scar Ferguson didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Ford snapped.
The man smiled. ‘Like I said, I’m just the messenger.’
‘Name and message,’ Ford demanded.
The man reached into a pocket and retrieved a piece of paper. He passed it to Ford and said, ‘The name is Bennett.’
The deputy marshal moved closer to the fire and opened the slip of paper and read through it.
‘It’s a list of names,’ Bennett supplied. ‘The whereabouts of the first on the list is the only one that’s known. It’s up to you to find the rest.’
‘What am I supposed to do when I find them?’
‘Why, kill them, of course.’
Travers snorted. ‘You’re kidding.’
Bennett shook his head. ‘No. Not in the least. If you fail in your task, you’ll never see your father again.’
Ford snapped, ‘Get out of here before I kill you first.’
‘An unwise move.’
‘Go!’
The darkness quickly swallowed the retreating form of Bennett, and once he was gone, Travers said, ‘You ain’t considering this, are you?’
‘Not much choice. I’ll track each individual and decide on the course of action to take at that point in time.’
‘Hell, Josh.’
‘I’ll give you a copy of these names, Ben. I want you to find out how they are connected.’
‘All right. I’ll do what I can.’
‘If we attack this from both sides I think we’ll be able to solve it and find Bass before they kill him.’
‘How do I get word to you?’
‘Don’t unless you really need to. If you do, do it through Helena. They get wind we’re on to them it might go bad for Bass.’
‘I still don’t like it, Josh.’ Travers rubbed his chin while deep in thought.
Ford nodded. ‘If you saw the first name on the list, you’d like it even less.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Elijah Thomas.’
Travers’ eyes sprang wide. ‘Isn’t he. . . ?’
‘Yeah. He’s in Hardrock Pen.’
Chapter 9
The Hardrock Penitentiary sat on the banks of the Hardrock River. Its outer walls were made of large blocks of stone and rose at least twenty feet into the air. Guard towers were situated on each corner, and heavily-armed guards roamed the parapets.
The main gate was made of iron and clanged loudly as it closed once Ford had ridden through on the roan.
He rode the horse across to a hitch rail outside the warden’s office and dismounted.
‘Can I help you, Marshal Ford?’
Ford turned and faced a thin guard. ‘I want to see the warden. Is he in?’
‘Yes, sir. Follow me.’
Ford brushed trail dust from his pants, and went inside, waiting in the outer office while the guard announced him. When the man reappeared, he said, ‘Warden Bromley will see you now.’
Ford walked through to the inner sanctum of the warden’s office and the guard closed the door behind him. Bromley sat behind his desk. He was a large, round man in his forties with a receding hairline.
‘Marshal Ford. What is it I can do for you?’
‘Warden, I need to speak with one of your prisoners.’
‘Which one?’
‘Elijah Thomas.’
Bromley frowned. ‘Might I ask why?’
‘He has information on a case I’m working on.’
Bromley studied him for a moment and then nodded. ‘OK. I’ll have someone bring him up out of the hole.’
Fifteen minutes later, a guard led in a haggard-looking prisoner. He was filthy and stank of sweat. He eyed Ford and then returned his gaze to the governor.
‘Marshal Ford wants a word with you, Thomas.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He turned to face Ford, who said, ‘Before you answer what I’m about to ask you, I want you to think very carefully.’
‘OK.’
‘Do you know a feller named Bennett?’
‘No.’
‘Think about it.’
‘I don’t need to.’
Ford paused. ‘Do you know why anyone wants you dead?’
Thomas frowned. ‘What?’
The deputy marshal ignored him and turned to face Bromley. ‘Warden, I have a transfer order in my pocket to take Thomas out of here for his own protection. His life is in danger.’
‘Why haven’t I heard of it?’
‘It’s only just come to light.’
‘You’d best give it to me so I can read it, then.’
Ford reached into his pocket and took out the paper. He passed it to Bromley who perused it. He looked up and asked, ‘Why didn’t Bass have this all set out on the proper paper. It’s just a hand-scrawled note. Anyone could have written it.’
‘Like I said, last minute. If you need to get in touch with him, he’s in Copper Bluffs. You’d have to send a rider, though, because they don’t have telegraph. That’s a four day round trip.’
Bromley studied him for a long moment and then nodded. ‘OK. But I want you to sign release papers just in case this goes south, and they try to pin it on me.’
‘Done.’
Three miles out from the prison, Ford pulled off the road into a large stand of pines, cut Thomas loose, and they dismounted.
‘What’s going on?’ asked a wary Thomas.
‘I’ve got more questions for you. I thought out here would be a better place and have less chance of you lying to me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Just so you understand where we’re at, a man’s life depends on your answers. That, and I’m under instruction to kill you.’
Alarm flitted across Thomas’ face. ‘What? Why? I didn’t do nothing.’
‘Who wants you dead?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing!’
‘I’m going to say a few names and you tell me if you know them.’
‘OK.’
‘Ollie West. Milburn Allen. Chris Allen.’
With the mention of each name, Thomas grew a shade paler than before. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know them.’
‘Liar!’
‘No. I don’t.’
Ford’s Peacemaker came clear of leather. ‘I’ll give you to the count of three.’
He never even got to one before a shot rang out and Thomas grunted as the slug hammered home. He sank to his knees and rolled on to his side, a large red stain spreading across his shirtfront.
; Ford whirled to face the threat. The gunfire rang out again, but this time the shooter missed. A furrow opened in the bark of a tree to Ford’s right. A puff of gun-smoke gave away the bushwhacker’s position. Ford snapped off a couple of shots in that direction and ducked behind a large pine.
More bullets peppered the trunk and sent bark chips flying.
Ford leaned out and fired two shots, paused, saw movement, and fired again. This time he was rewarded by a yelp of pain. He waited and when no more shots came, eased out from behind the tree.
Ford edged forward into the eerie silence that had descended across the stand of trees. When he reached the place where he figured the ambusher was, he was surprised to find a guard from the prison, down and dead.
Ford muttered, ‘What the hell is going on?’
He went back to Thomas and found him still alive. Just. He knelt beside him and said, ‘Tell me where I can find them.’
‘Get me back to the prison doctor.’
Ford shook his head. ‘You’re dying. Whoever wanted you dead saw to that.’
‘Milburn Allen.’
‘Yes, Allen. Where can I find him?’
Thomas gave his head a weak shake. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Something? Anything?’
Thomas said, ‘Ollie West. Bender’s Flats.’ And then he died.
‘Here’s the wire you were expecting, Marshal,’ said the Lost River telegrapher as he handed it over.
‘Thanks,’ Travers replied, and looked it over.
It read: Names you asked about are on record. Trial three years ago. Murder of young woman. Maria Kemp. Thomas, witness. West, sheriff. Milburn Allen, judge. Chris Allen, suspect. Arresting officer, Bass Reeves.
‘Christ almighty,’ Travers hissed. He knew of the case. But there was one name missing. The woman’s father, Oliver Kemp. He turned back to the telegrapher. ‘I need you to send another wire for me.’
‘Sure, what do you want to say?’
Two minutes later, the man tapped at his key until he was finished and then said, ‘All sent.’
‘How long until I get an answer?’
The telegrapher shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘Could be a while.’
‘I’ll still wait.’
And wait he did; for five hours, but when the reply came back, it was all worth it. It read:
Oliver Kemp lives Rock Flats, Montana.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Travers whispered.
Chapter 10
Bender’s Flats was busy. Very busy. Bunting and streamers decorated the awnings on false-fronts. Hand-painted signs which said Vote Ollie West for sheriff! were scattered about. Along with others which said Dan’s your man! Vote for Dan Wells. As he rode along the main street on the roan, Ford could sense the excitement in the air. Townsfolk stopped and glanced at the stranger, and then smiled.
When Ford found the law office, it was empty. He left the roan tied at the hitch-rail outside and set about searching for the sheriff. He hadn’t gone far when he came across a small crowd outside the Gold Star Saloon, being addressed by the man himself.
‘. . . and people, when you elect me sheriff again, I swear that I will do all I can to rid the town of the bad elements such as those on the outskirts of town.’
Ford saw the women in the group nod, while more than one of the men paled.
‘Yes sir, Trixie and her girls will be gone by that evening.’
He continued to ramble on for several more minutes before finishing his promissory speech, and the crowd dissipated. He saw Ford and walked across to him. ‘Howdy, stranger! Passing through?’
Ford studied the middle-aged man’s face. He opened his jacket to show him the badge. ‘Nope, I came to see you.’
West frowned. ‘OK. Come on over to the office. We can talk there.’
Ford followed him back to the jail and climbed the steps to the boardwalk. They entered the office and the deputy marshal was surprised to find it relatively clean.
West walked across to a black pot-bellied stove and asked, ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘Sure.’
West began to pour and said, ‘So, what is it I can help you with?’
‘Milburn Allen.’
West paused what he was doing, and then continued. ‘Never heard the name before.’
‘Thomas said different.’
‘Elijah Thomas?’
‘That’s him.’
West finished pouring and turned to Ford with the steaming cup in his hand. Ford’s right hand rested on the Peacemaker’s butt, ready just in case.
West handed him the drink. ‘What did he say I did? Roughed him up when I arrested him? He always said he’d get me for it. Maybe the warden. . . .’
‘He’s dead,’ Ford stated.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. But before he died he told me where you were. He said you’d know where to find Allen.’
‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Milburn Allen.’
West pretended to think long and hard, and then said, ‘The only Allen I recall was a judge some years ago.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Nope. Can’t say as I do.’
West walked over to his battered desk and sat down. He looked about the heavily marked top as though he’d lost something, and then opened the first drawer.
Ford was caught by surprise when he looked up to see a Colt coming to bear on him. The hammer was thumbed back and aimed at him before he started his own draw.
The Peacemaker belched flame and the .45 calibre slug smashed into West’s chest. The gun in the sheriff’s fist discharged into the wall behind Ford.
The sheriff stiffened and slumped forwards, on to the desktop. Ford kept his gun trained on the inert form and stepped forward. He checked the body and found him dead.
‘Christ,’ he swore.
Outside, he heard footsteps on the boardwalk and the door burst open. Two men froze just inside the door when they saw Ford standing over the dead lawman with his Peacemaker still in his hand.
‘It’s all right, I’m a deputy marshal,’ he said, trying to prevent them from drawing bad conclusions.
‘What happened?’ one of them asked.
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Ford said.
‘Your wire came back sooner than expected from Helena, Marshal,’ the squint-eyed telegrapher said when Ford walked into the stuffy telegraph office.
Ford grunted and held out his hand.
The man passed it over and Ford read it. Judge Milburn Allen, Daleyville Montana.
He screwed up the piece of paper, a grim expression etched deep into his face. Hell, it just got better. First the prison, then the sheriff, and now, a damned judge.
‘Your son is a very resourceful man, Marshal,’ Kemp said, as he watched his prisoner eat the stew he’d brought down from the kitchen. ‘He’s getting through that list I had for him.’
‘I told you, Kemp,’ Bass growled, ‘He’ll be here for you. He’s one of them young bucks who’ll do whatever it takes to get their man. He might be a little unorthodox, but he’s a damned good marshal.’
‘Is that admiration I hear in the estranged father’s tone.’
‘Call it whatever you want. I’m just telling you how it is. He’ll find you and he’ll kill you. And I’ll have a front-row seat to see it.’
‘So you keep telling me. It’s starting to get a little tedious, listening to your monotonous drivel.’
‘We’ll see. Enjoy life while you can, you stuck up son of a bitch.’
Chapter 11
The first thing Ford did when he hit the town of Daleyville was send word to Travers about what he’d found. The telegrapher asked him if he wanted to wait for a reply, but Ford told him that he would call back later. There was no saying how long it would take Travers to get the message anyway.
‘Can you tell me where I might find Judge Allen at this time of day?’ he asked t
he man behind the counter.
A wary look told him that he didn’t want to say. ‘Ahh . . .’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s just that . . . just. . . .’
‘Out with it.’
‘You being a lawman should know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t, damn it.’
‘He’s not quite legal, if you know what I mean?’
‘You mean he’s an outlaw?’
‘Nooo, not exactly. He has different opinions on how the law should be enacted.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, take his bodyguards for example.’
‘He has bodyguards?’
The telegrapher nodded. ‘Uh huh. There are three of them. Two were gunfighters who came before his bench. He found them guilty of manslaughter and gave them a choice. Work for him or go to prison for twenty years.’
‘OK. What about the third?’
‘That’s even stranger. Have you heard of a man called Lacey Harper?’
Ford had. He was a killer the marshals had been after for years. ‘I know of him.’
‘Well, he’s the third man. He came up before the judge and everyone expected him to hang. But, no. The judge had his men testify for him and the charges were dismissed.’
This was going to be tough. He needed answers from the judge, but with three dangerous men watching over him, it would not prove an easy task.
‘What about his son? Do you know where he hangs his hat?’
The man shook his head.
‘All right. Now, where can I find Judge Allen?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’ll be at the Rolling Dice. It’s where he has his office. He owns it, actually.’
Ford was about to leave when he had a thought. ‘I want you to take down a message for me. And whatever you do, do not repeat a word of it.’
‘Sure.’
The telegrapher took down the message and when he was finished, stared at Ford. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yeah. If something happens to me, you send it to the marshals.’
‘OK.’
Ford left the telegraph office and led the roan along the street. Totally devoid of a plan, he figured to just throw dynamite and see what blew up. It was far from perfect, but so was life.
