The Revenger

by Peter Brandvold

  Presently, hooves thudded somewhere to his left. He jogged through a stand of dusty pines and cedars, crossed a wash and then ran through more pines and cedars, and stopped. A horse was just then cresting a rocky ridge about two hundred yards away, heading northeast.

  The rider was a blur from this distance. All Sartain could see of the horse was a black patch on its left flank, which glinted briefly in the high-altitude sunlight just before horse and rider plunged down the opposite side of the ridge.

  Sartain raised his hand holding the LeMat and ran his blue chambray shirtsleeve across his forehead. Still staring after the rider, he cursed, “Now...who in the hell are you?”

  * * *

  Sartain found his would-be killer’s horse in a corral with a lean-to stable a short walk from where the man lay dead.

  The horse was a sleek sorrel gelding, well cared for and both saddled and bridled, though its bit had been slipped and its saddle cinch had been loosened. The horse didn’t seem overly spooked to see someone other than its own rider entering the corral, which flanked what had once been a three-story mud-brick hotel. The corral was a bit tumbledown, and brush had grown against its weathered rails.

  The horse whickered a few times as the Cajun went through the dead man’s saddlebags and blanket roll, looking for anything that identified the rider. He’d already gone through the dead man’s pockets and found nothing more than a few coins, a single playing card with the name Elvira Houston penciled on one corner, and a broken comb.

  There wasn’t much more in the saddlebags but cooking gear and some coffee, flour, and fatback. There was nothing in the man’s possibles that identified him. Not even a bill of sale for the groceries. All he could find that might remotely hint at his identity was a spare, holstered revolver wrapped in his bedroll.

  The initials J.L.F. had been scratched into the worn walnut grip. The initials probably didn’t mean much. The gun looked old, and the initials could have been scratched there by a previous owner.

  Still, the initials gave The Revenger something to go on.

  And then there was the woman’s name—Elvira Houston. Like the initials on the gun, the name might or might not mean anything, but it was all the Cajun had. What he’d do with the bits of information, he had no idea.

  He wasn’t sure what to do with the horse, either. No point in leaving it alone here in this ghost town. Deciding he’d take it with him and turn the sorrel over to the first livery he came to, he led the mount out of the stable and onto the deserted main street, tying it to a worn hitching post near the well. The horse blew and switched its tail, now a little uneasy about the turn of events.

  It seemed a trusting beast, however, and took the stranger in stride.

  The Cajun patted the horse’s neck and talked to it a little, letting it get used to him. He had no grudge against the horse, only its rider. He walked back out to the well and stared in the direction his own mount had run after the first rifle shot.

  He placed two fingers between his lips and whistled. After about thirty seconds, hoof thuds rose. Then Boss appeared, moving tentatively around a dogleg in the deserted street, head down, ears twitching, occasionally stepping on his drooping reins.

  The big buckskin wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Come on, you old cayuse,” Sartain urged, beckoning. “It’s all clear.” He glanced around at the abandoned buildings nearly surrounding him, narrowing one dubious eye. “I think...”

  As the horse continued forward, taking its time, a cautious cast to its copper eyes, Sartain returned to the job he’d started when he’d been so rudely interrupted. He winched up a bucket of water, set it on the ground by the well, and cupped several dripping handfuls of the cold, refreshing liquid to his lips.

  When he’d slaked his thirst, he plunged his head into the water, corkscrewing it, giving his face and scalp and the back of his neck a good scrubbing with his fingers, ridding himself of three days’ worth of trail grime.

  He’d ridden down from Deadwood in the Black Hills, where he’d been sent to kill a man for an older gent out of Denver whom the other man had shot and paralyzed. The older gent, Mike McCarthy, was a liveryman, and he’d been innocently waiting in line at the bank when the owlhoot Bob Norman Thomas, an outlaw out of the Dakota Territory, had held up the teller and shot him dead.

  Mike McCarthy, raising his hands above his head along with the bank’s half-dozen other customers, had simply queried, “Now, what’d you have to go and do that for?”

  It had been an automatic response to the pointless killing of a young man whom McCarthy had known. Bob Norman Thomas’s response had been to turn around, laughing, and shoot McCarthy from nearly point-blank range, shredding his guts and severely injuring his spine.

  For that, Mike Sartain had ridden up to Deadwood on the trail of Thomas and shot not only Thomas but the brother he’d been riding with. He’d left their bodies to cool near their coffee fire in a fringe of Douglas firs not far from Pheeter’s Station, just south of the diggings and hurdy-gurdy houses of Deadwood.

  Then he rode away, satisfied with another job well done.

  Because that’s who he was—Mike Sartain, the man who exacted revenge for those who could not.

  The newspaper scribblers called him The Revenger.

  Scribblers with a sense of humor had dubbed him “the Ragin’ Cajun.”

  Now the big, handsome, curly-headed man from New Orleans slipped Boss’s bit from his mouth. He intended to bury the man he’d shot, so he’d likely be here a while. Since the sun was edging behind the high, fir-clad western ridges, he might have to spend the night, though he didn’t relish the idea.

  He wasn’t too proud to admit that the old ghost town, an abandoned mining camp whose heyday had long since come and gone, gave him the fantods. There was an unsettling sound to the wind blowing through the town, raking across empty window frames and fluttering over loose roofing shakes, occasionally giving a rusty shingle chain a chilling squawk.

  Dust rose now and then, and an ancient, yellowed newspaper fluttered just above the ground to paste itself to the stone pylons of a small cabin that boasted a sign over its porch announcing in badly faded letters: AUNT JENNY’S HOUSE OF FORBIDDEN DELIGHTS.

  Aunt Jenny’s empty windows stared blackly out at Sartain, like the empty eye sockets of a dead man’s skull. Tattered, filthy curtains jostled in the rising breeze, casting shadows, some of which almost looked like phantoms skulking around the windows to peer out at the stranger by the well.

  In the darkening mountains around the town, a coyote lifted a long, mournful wail.

  Sartain shuddered as he winched up another bucket of water. He wasn’t usually the spooky sort, but this town had hiked his short hairs even as he’d first ridden into it. Hard Winter, a beaten-up sign had pronounced it. Likely a right fitting handle. Maybe the hard winters were why it was dead.

  But the hard winters weren’t why the place made him shiver. There was something sinister about the defunct settlement. Sartain wasn’t normally the superstitious sort, though he was from a superstitious place—the whores who’d raised him in the New Orleans French Quarter were some of the most superstitious folks he’d ever run in to, and he’d been all over Appalachia during the war—but he could feel a foreboding deep in his Cajun bones.

  There was something off-kilter about this place. He’d be glad to get shed of it. He would have hightailed it straightaway if he hadn’t felt compelled to dig the dead bushwhacker a shallow grave. The man sure as hell didn’t deserve it, and Sartain wasn’t one to shed any tears or even bury men who came that close to trimming his wick. But there’d been something about this gent that had compelled him to give him at least a slightly better send-off than he deserved.

  He wasn’t sure what that was.

  Maybe it was just the fact that he hadn’t looked like a cold-blooded killer. Maybe he thought it was possible the man had made an honest mistake, though plenty of men had come gunning for The Revenger in the past. He’d
had a bounty on his head after he’d killed the soldiers who’d raped and murdered his pregnant girl and her grandfather.

  Sartain filled his canteen from the bucket and watered both horses. He unstrapped his folding shovel from his saddle, walked back to where he’d left the dead man...and stopped dead in his tracks.

  The expired bushwhacker was not where he’d left him.

  Chapter 2

  Under his breath, Sartain said, “Holy moly.”

  He looked around. He must have made a mistake, become disoriented by the moving of the late-day shadows. But then he saw the blood pool in the sand and gravel where the body had obviously been.

  The Cajun’s heart raced, skipping beats.

  He dropped the shovel and palmed his LeMat, clicking back the trigger. He turned, slowly probing every nook and cranny around him for another would-be ambusher. Seeing nothing out of sorts—except for a missing body, that was—he moved slowly toward the bloodstain that had turned brown now as the blood had soaked into the ground and semi-dried.

  The blood was there, but the body was not.

  Someone had carted it off.

  Sartain inspected the ground around the stain. He couldn’t find the direction in which the man had been dragged. The ground was broken up around the stain, so it didn’t leave much of a sign. He thought he saw what could have been scuff marks possibly made by the heels and spurs of the dead man’s boots.

  On the other hand, those marks could have been natural or made a long time ago. This back alley had been worn hard by the folks who’d once populated the boomtown.

  One thing was for sure—the dead man was gone. Someone had carted him off.

  Who? And was the man or men still around?

  Could it have been the man he’d seen fleeing on horseback?

  Just then, the sun slipped down behind the western peaks. Instant dusk, thick, purple shadows stretching flat and wrapping around The Revenger like a gloved hand. He holstered the LeMat but did not secure the keeper thong over the hammer.

  He picked up the shovel and returned to where the horses milled by the well, facing each other over the empty water bucket. They could have been having a stare-down.

  Sartain took a careful look around once more. The town was small, maybe three city blocks long with shacks, stock pens, and privies forming the ragged edges in all directions. There were eight- to twenty-foot gaps between most of the buildings.

  Breaks where a man or men could be lurking, waiting for a clear shot.

  The Cajun dropped the bucket back into the well and took stock. It was getting too dark to ride far, but he’d rather ride a ways into the mountains before setting up camp for the night. The pines and firs beckoned. These empty buildings seemed to be chuckling silently, malevolently at him.

  Besides, there were too many places where more bushwhackers could lurk out of sight here. He’d feel safer among the forested slopes beyond.

  He walked over to shove the sorrel’s bit back into its mouth and stopped.

  Frowning, he turned to stare east down the vacant street that had turned vanilla now as the buildings had turned the color of old saddle leather to either side of it. He spied movement out there, just beyond the town.

  Then he heard again what he’d heard a moment ago, the faint clink of a bridle chain.

  A horse and rider were approaching the town. They were a dark-brown blur until a fleeting ray of last light touched the crown of the rider’s hat with gauzy salmon. The rider appeared to be slumped forward in his saddle. The horse loped with its head raised tensely, and half-turned to one side. As it approached the well, Sartain could hear the thudding of its hooves growing louder.

  “Now what in the hell...” the Cajun heard himself mutter, his stomach beginning to churn, adding to his overall unease about this ghostly place.

  Horse and rider rode on into the town, almost disappearing in the thick shadows pushing into the street. They emerged again when the horse came to within fifty yards and slowed. The horse gave a nervous whinny. Boss returned the cry, rippling his withers. The sorrel turned toward the newcomer, gave its tail a single, incredulous switch, and whickered.

  Sartain placed his right hand on his LeMat but left the gun in its holster. As the horse and rider continued toward him, walking now, he looked around. This newcomer could be trying to distract him so another bushwhacker could take a shot at him.

  Or maybe, slumped forward like he was, he was playing possum. Feigning injury.

  Sartain went ahead and slid the LeMat from its holster, clicking the hammer back. He looked around again and then faced the newcomer as the horse drew to a stop about twenty feet away, lowering its head and blowing. Tan dust sifted around it.

  It was a broad-chested, short-legged skewbald paint—a fine-looking animal, mostly pale dun lightly sprinkled with white. Likely not the horse he’d seen fleeing earlier. The rider was young and thin. He was slumped entirely forward against the paint’s neck, his hat mashed against his forehead. Sartain could smell sweat lather on the horse. It had come far at a hard pace.

  The rider’s narrow shoulders rose and fell sharply. The young man was grunting and groaning softly, miserably.

  “Who’re you, kid?” the Cajun asked, stepping wide around the horse and casting another quick glance to his flank, half-expecting another would-be bushwhacker to step out from a break between buildings and throw down on him.

  From the side, he could see blood trickling down from the kid’s upper chest to form a narrow stream across the paint’s wither. He was wounded, all right. Not faking it.

  “What happened, kid?” Sartain asked, stepping forward and reluctantly sliding the LeMat back into its holster. Again, he wouldn’t secure the keeper thong over the hammer. He wanted the gun free for a quick, easy draw if needed.

  The kid’s face was turned toward Sartain. He had his eyes squeezed shut in misery. Now, as he lifted his head slightly from the pole of his horse, his hat tumbled to the ground. He was sandy-haired, sharp-chinned, with a lean, narrow face turned copper by the sun. He had a thumb-sized birthmark on his left cheek, slightly darker than the rest of his face.

  A Schofield .44 rode in a soft leather holster up high on his left hip, on a cartridge belt half-filled with brass. Hide had been wrapped around the handle. An old-model Winchester carbine was sheathed on the left side of his horse.

  “Help me, mister,” the kid said. “Too…took a bullet about two miles back.”

  Sartain looked at the young man’s bloody blue work shirt. He’d taken a bullet through his right suspender, it appeared, up high on his chest. Probably not a lung or heart shot, unless the bullet had danced around inside him after entering.

  “Who shot you?”

  The kid swallowed, grunted, and shook his head. “I don’t know. Didn’t see the bastard...uh...pardon my French. I don’t usually cuss, but, holy cow, I sure didn’t deserve that bullet! I’m just passin’ through!”

  He opened his watery light-blue eyes to regard The Revenger pleadingly. “Can you help me down from my horse? I’m miserable hurt, and if I’m gonna die, I’d just as soon do it on the ground as up here on ole Taz.”

  Sartain took another careful look around. Not seeing anyone bearing down on him, though it was getting harder and harder to see anything out here now, he reached up and wrapped a hand around the young man’s left forearm. The kid swung his right boot over the paint’s rump. Sartain wrapped his hands around the kid’s lean waist, easing him down to the ground.

  The kid slumped against his horse, breathing hard.

  Sartain kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder, wondering what in hell he was going to do about this undesirable change of situation. He couldn’t very well ride off and leave a wounded, possibly dying, young man behind to expire alone. Not without trying to lend a hand in some way. What he could do for the lad, however, he had no idea.

  He supposed he could at least try to make him comfortable and see how bad the wound was, maybe give him a shot or two of whiskey to h
elp ease the pain.

  “Got a handle?”

  “Dewey,” the kid said, resting his arm on his saddle and leaning his forehead against his arm. “Dewy Dade from Alamogordo.” He hadn’t quite gotten that last out before his knees buckled. As he dropped, his horse sidestepped away from him, and Sartain had to grab him around the waist to keep him from falling belly down in the street.

  He picked the kid up in his arms. The Cajun didn’t figure he weighed over a hundred and forty. He looked around for somewhere to take him.

  He considered the stable in which he’d found the bushwhacker’s horse. Then he remembered seeing an old saloon and hotel that was two or three stories and looked reasonably intact, or at least, intact relative to the rest of the town.

  There might still be a bed in the place.

  He peered to the east and saw the building on the street’s north side roughly a block away. Starting to walk toward it with the kid in his arms, he whistled for Boss. The horse came trotting up behind him, following like a loyal dog. He wanted to keep near the horse and the Henry repeater sheathed on his saddle, in case he needed both.

  He mounted the saloon’s porch steps. It was too dark to read the large wooden sign stretched across the second story just above the broad front gallery, but he remembered that it read MELVIN PEPPER’S KICKING HORSE SALOON & HOTEL in letters that probably could have been seen from a quarter-mile away in the saloon’s and the town’s prime.

  Now, however, the letters were ghostly representations of their former selves, barely discernible against the rotting, sun-blistered wood.

  Sartain wasn’t surprised to find the front door boarded over—several planks nailed at angles across it. Several more were stretched over the front window. The gallery itself was in poor shape, missing several boards in the floor so that the Cajun had to watch his step if he didn’t want to fall through to the ground beneath it.