The Revenger

by Peter Brandvold

Sartain and Dixie got back to town about an hour after setting out from the gulch. As he rode, the Cajun realized he’d gotten off lucky. A Dutch ride over rocks, as cowpunchers called being dragged, could easily kill a man or stove him up for life.

  He was a tough bastard, he’d give himself that.

  He might have been a fool to let Johnny get the drop on him, but he was tough. And, fortunately, he was a quick mender.

  As he and Dixie rode side by side, taking it slow, he considered who the other three bushwhackers were. At least, he thought there’d been three. Maybe four. Anyway, the San Juans seemed to have a whole lot of bushwhackers.

  Dixie didn’t say much as they rode back toward Hard Winter. Sartain wondered why. She didn’t seem curious about the bushwhackers, and she didn’t seem to think that it was damned curious how the Cajun, a stranger to this country, had been bushwhacked and hound-dogged like a Smoky Mountain coon ever since he’d gotten here.

  He glanced at her several times, puzzled. He wanted to ask her the questions weighing on him, but he decided to wait her out. Maybe she’d show her hand on her own if she didn’t think he was suspicious of her.

  If she had a hand to show, that was. After hearing her probing Dewey Dade, the night before about the gold, he believed she did.

  The gold...

  What gold?

  And why had Beacham’s boys thought he knew where it was?

  And who on God’s green earth was Hadley?

  When he was back on his feet, which would likely be tomorrow, he’d track Beacham down and get some answers straight from the horse’s mouth, if from nobody else.

  They rode into Hard Winter as the afternoon shadows were growing long and velvety. Sartain didn’t bother with his horse, Dixie said she’d see to his care. Instead, the Cajun dismounted and went on inside. He was mildly surprised to see the Mexican who’d been smoking his quirleys the night before as though he’d been making love to them running the place for Dixie.

  There wasn’t much work to do since the only customer was a grizzled, gray-bearded old mountain man nursing a whiskey and nibbling a cheese sandwich at the same table the Mexican had been sitting at the night before.

  But at least he’d been able to keep the place open while Dixie scrounged the mountains for Sartain’s battered hide.

  “Miguel, would you set some water on the stove for me, please?” Dixie asked the short Mexican, who had a quirley drooping from a corner of his mouth.

  He seemed a strange, quiet little man. He only nodded and hustled out the back door to fetch a bucket of water from the rain barrel.

  As Sartain climbed the stairs, he remembered that last night the kid, Dewey Dade, had mentioned something about “the Mexican.” But there was probably more than one Mexican in the San Juans.

  Sartain’s head was thoroughly spinning by the time he reached Dixie’s room and collapsed belly down on her bed. It wasn’t spinning from the Dutch ride. It was spinning from all the questions swirling around in it.

  He reached over to the table by the bed and poured himself a tall drink of Sam Clay. He downed half in a single swallow and then lay belly-down again, holding the glass beside him in his right hand. Instantly, the tangle-leg doused some of the fire licking up from between his shoulder blades into the crown of his skull.

  He heard Dixie on the stairs.

  She came in carrying a basin of steaming water, a tin of salve, and some bandages.

  “Gonna get you all fixed up, Mike. You just relax, and I’ll get those cuts all cleaned up and bandaged. Make you good as new.”

  “How’s the kid?” Sartain asked.

  “He’s on the mend. I just looked in on him. He’s getting restless, but I told him to stay in bed. Rest will help him get his strength back up.” She grabbed what was left of Sartain’s shirt and ripped it off him. She pulled it out from under him, tossing it onto the floor. Then she cut away what remained of his long-handle top, exposing his back.

  “I just bought those long-handles in Denver, too,” Sartain grunted.

  Dixie chuckled. “You’re lucky the shirt and the long-handles are all you lost.”

  “You’re a damn fine sawbones, Dixie,” Sartain said, taking another sip of the whiskey as she went to work, cleaning the burning cuts.

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  She gently cleaned his wounds.

  Sartain took another sip of the bourbon. “Dixie?”

  “Yes, Mike?”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  She frowned. “Where what is?”

  “The loot. The stolen money or gold or whatever in hell it is. I have no idea.”

  He felt her pause in her work. Glancing up over his left shoulder, he saw her frowning down at him. “What stolen money?” She gave a weak chuckle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do, honey. I’m just giving it to you honestly. I don’t know where it is. I just happened into this town for water for me an’ my horse. I was going to ride on toward Durango before that bushwhacker tore down on me, and then the kid came riding into town with a bullet in his shoulder. That’s what held me up. Not the loot or whatever in hell it is that’s got everybody’s drawers in a twist around here.”

  Dixie tucked her hair behind her ear and studied him, befuddled. “You’re not working for Hadley?”

  “Who’s Hadley?”

  Her gaze wavered and she glanced around the room as though to reorganize her thoughts. Then she went to work again, cleaning the cuts on his back. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Dixie, I think after all I been through, I deserve to know what in hell is going on here, don’t you?”

  She lifted the bloody cloth from his back and gazed down at him again, worriedly this time.

  “Mike, if you’ve got no part in the loot, you’d best light a shuck just as soon as I get these wounds cleaned and bandaged. I mean right now—tonight!”

  Chapter 11

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Sartain said and drained his glass.

  Dixie leaned close to him and ran a hand through his curly hair. “Mike, someone’s gonna kill you. Word’s gotten out that you’re here for the loot. Everyone thinks Hadley sent you. They assume that’s why you shot Beacham. They think—and I thought—you wanted him out of the way so you could get the loot back to Hadley, and you’d split it up. Everyone knows who you are. You get revenge on folks. Well, everyone thinks Hadley sent you here to get revenge on Beacham for double-crossing him.”

  Dixie kissed his cheek. “I know you’re tough. I know about your girl. The one them soldiers killed. I heard the story told around. But, Mike, there’s lots of men in these mountains looking for that gold. If it’s not found soon, there’s gonna be more bloodshed.”

  “Dixie, tell me who Hadley is. Tell me about the gold.”

  She sighed as though frustrated by a stubborn child and returned to doctoring his back. “Pour me a drink. My nerves are all jangled. Dang it, I like you, you big ole Brahma bull. And I’ll admit I liked you some better when I thought you knew where the gold was, but I like you too much to want to see you turned into a human sieve by the rannies honeycombing these mountains. Word is spreading about the gold. More and more men will be coming to look for it.”

  Sartain refilled his glass, then handed it up over his shoulder. Dixie took a long drink and handed it back to him. “Oh, Beacham thought he was in good when he threw in with Rench Hadley. Hadley’s a big hombre in these parts. Big physically and by reputation. The law’s even afraid of him. He rode with some of the meanest dozen or so killers you’d ever like to meet.

  “Somehow, Beacham and his small, raggedy-heeled bunch threw in with Hadley—probably because Hadley got short-handed when his group was bushwhacked by the army down in Arizona. Anyway, Hadley decided to rob the San Juan Mining Company payroll last month, as it rolled down out of Denver. Close to a hundred thousand dollars in gold coins. Just after they did, Beacham decided to double-cross the biggest, meanest owlhoot in
all of Colorado Territory. You see, Chick’s been known to get too big for his britches.

  “Only, it didn’t work the way he planned. His men ambushed Hadley and his men. Terrible firefight. Chick lost three men. Hadley lost most of his. A few rode away with him wounded. Hadley himself took a bullet. He managed to hold onto the loot. But since he and his wounded riders were in no condition to ride far with a strongbox that heavy, and there was a chance Chick would catch up to ’em again, they buried it in these mountains somewhere. Then Hadley rode on up to Salida, where last I heard he’s in jail.”

  “Jail?”

  “Sure. As soon as he started askin’ around for a sawbones, everyone in town recognized him. A sawbones came for him, all right, and so did the town marshal, the county sheriff, and three deputies. So he’s in jail, and only he knows where the loot is buried. Apparently, he’s not sharing that news with the law. Stubborn hombre, Rench Hadley. But everyone around here figured that if he survived his bullet wound, he’d bust out of that hoosegow and come looking for the gold. Or he’d send someone to look for it.”

  Sartain took another sip of the bourbon and handed the glass to Dixie, smacking his lips. “Well, I’ll be damned. Who’d I shoot yesterday? The hombre with the spectacles.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Probably someone who figured you were here to crowd the search for the gold.”

  “What about the kid?”

  “Who?”

  “Come on, Dixie. I heard you talking to Dewey Dade last night. When he was out of his head and talkin’ out of school, so to speak.”

  “Ah, hell.”

  “Yeah, well, I got big ears to go along with the rest of me.”

  “Well, someone shot him for a reason. I got to wondering if he somehow got word about where the loot was, and when I walked into his room last night as he was muttering about the loot...well, I thought maybe Hadley had sent him, too. Or maybe he’d found out somehow and came to dig it up.”

  Dixie sighed as she started rubbing arnica on The Revenger’s back. “It is not to my credit that I’ve joined the quest for stolen gold—money that is far from rightly mine—but there it is.”

  “Ah, hell—I don’t blame you for that, Dixie. You’re a beautiful girl living alone out here, working like a dog.” Sartain splashed another couple of fingers of bourbon into his glass. “Hell, I’d even hope you’re the one who finds it if I didn’t think it would get you killed.”

  Sartain handed the glass back to Dixie. She waved it off. “I best stay clear. I’ll have business tonight. Quite a few come in out of the mountains on a Saturday, and there’s even more now.” She sighed darkly. “You stay up here and keep the door locked. If anyone asks, Mike, I’ll tell ’em you rode on.”

  “Is Miguel gonna help you down there?”

  “Miguel’s old. I’ll give him a bottle, some food, and a room soon, and he can come up here and kick his boots up. He just likes to get away from his ranch every now and then. Give his daughter some peace and quiet out there.”

  “Yeah, you’d best be good to him. Since the kid might’ve mentioned him last night.”

  “Boy, you do have big ears!”

  “What do you suppose his part in this is?”

  “Who knows?” Dixie said with a sigh. “But Miguel has spent all his life in these mountains. There isn’t much that happens in ’em he doesn’t know about.”

  When she’d thoroughly bandaged the cuts on his back, Sartain warned, “You keep your head down, Dixie. This neck of the San Juans is a powder keg primed to explode.”

  She smiled and touched her nose to his. “If I find it, I’ll share it with you. I might not be Jewel, but I’ll make you happy, Mike.” She lightly pressed her lips to his. “I’ll make you happy for the rest of your life.”

  “I promise I will,” she said in a hushed, sexy singsong.

  “Oh, I know you would, darlin’.” Sartain sighed.

  * * *

  In more ways than one, Sartain felt far better after Dixie had left him than before she’d come to him.

  He was tired and sore, but the girl’s ministrations, as well as the whiskey, had him feeling like he could go downstairs and hold his own in a poker game. He thought better of it, however. He didn’t want to stir up any trouble. If the men after the gold thought he was gone, all the better.

  He’d be gone first thing tomorrow. He had to admit Dixie’s offer had been tempting. At least the part about him staying with her for a while. No one could replace his beloved Jewel, of course, but it would be nice to settle down with a woman. It wasn’t in the cards for him, though. However attractive such a life appeared to him now, there was just too much water under the bridge for him to ever settle down and live a peaceful life.

  He was convinced he hadn’t been fated to live out a peaceful existence.

  Besides, he wanted nothing to do with stolen gold.

  He lay back on the bed, built a quirley, refilled his whiskey glass, and fished an old Rocky Mountain News he’d picked up in Denver from his saddlebags. He could tell a small crowd was growing down in the main drinking hall because the din grew gradually louder. It also grew more raucous as the spirits flowed and the poker stakes climbed.

  Around ten thirty, when the whiskey was causing his eyes to grow heavy and he was pondering crawling under the covers, a couple of men’s voices rose higher than the others. They were also angry. Dixie responded in kind, although because of the generalized din, Sartain couldn’t tell exactly what she said to her disgruntled clientele.

  But the next voice was loud enough that The Revenger could hear exactly what the man said. “Come on, Dixie, we know he’s up there! We seen his horse out in the corral!”

  “Stand down or I’ll get my shotgun, Slater!”

  Sartain cursed and rose from the bed. Admonishing himself for not hiding his stallion, he dressed quickly, hearing to the argument between Dixie, Slater, and what sounded like a few others grow in volume.

  He strapped his LeMat around his waist and left the room.

  He was halfway downstairs when the din dwindled. Faces turned toward him. Men’s faces. Dixie stood with her back to the staircase, facing the group of a dozen or so of all shapes and sizes and manner of garb.

  The stocky gray-headed Slater stood before Dixie, red-faced with anger. Three others, including the stupid-looking string bean, Lonnie, flanked him with their arms crossed belligerently. Now, however, as they turned toward Sartain, they slowly lowered their arms, hands moving toward their guns.

  “I knew she had him up there.” Lonnie turned enraged eyes on Dixie. “I knew you had him up there!”

  “Of course we knew,” said Slater. “We seen his horse in the corral!”

  “Shame on you, Miss Dixie!” said Lonnie, hardening his jaws. “It is beneath you, cavortin’ with a known killer such as him! If your pa only knew what you’ve become!”

  Dixie said, “Oh, shut the hell up, Lonnie, you cork-headed fool! So we been makin’ time together. Finally, I found a man around here with some balls!”

  Ah, hell, Sartain thought. This was going even farther south than before he’d shown himself.

  He moved slowly and unthreateningly down to stand one step up from Dixie, holding up his arms to quiet the eruption on the heels of the girl’s last proclamation.

  “Hold on! Hold on!” he yelled.

  When the men had piped down again, Sartain said, “I know you all know who I am, so there’s no point in making introductions. I’m here by chance. I am not here because I was sent here by Rench Hadley or anyone else. I rode into Hard Winter looking for water. That’s all. I know nothing about the consarned gold. And what’s more, I don’t care about it. It’s all yours.”

  He placed his hands on Dixie’s shoulders.

  “But if one thing happens to this young lady, and if everyone ain’t on their best behavior while you’re enjoying her whiskey, you’ll have me to answer to.”

  A man at the back of the room shouted, “Maybe you can’t c
ount, Sartain, but you’re a little outnumbered here!”

  Sartain’s gaze found the man sitting near the back of the room with two others, far from the crowd gathered near the stairs. They were the only ones sitting. Playing cards, coins, and silver certificates lay strewn around their table, which was spiked with bottles and glasses.

  They were dressed better than most of the others in the room, with some city style. One wore a bowler hat. They were attired similarly to the man whom Sartain had beefed when he’d first ridden into town. Though they were sitting down, he could see well-oiled revolvers strapped to their thighs.

  Behind Sartain rose the ratcheting scrape of a rifle being cocked. “Now there’s two, and I’m ready to cut loose with this carbine here,” yelled Dewey Dade from the top of the stairs, extending a Spencer repeater straight out from his left hip. “So go ahead and start fiddlin’, boys, and we’ll dance!”

  The kid wore only his long-handles and socks. His coarse, wavy blond hair, shaved above the ears, was badly mussed. His right arm hung down by his side.

  “Thanks, kid,” Sartain said. “But there’s no need.”

  “I’ll back anything you do, Mr. Sartain.” Dewey kept his bright, angry eyes on the room. “You saved my bacon yesterday. If it hadn’t been for you, I'd like to have bled to death.”

  Sartain turned back to the room. “No one’s gonna make any trouble here tonight—are you, fellas?”

  The man who’d made the last threat cursed in disgust, and he and his friends resumed their card game.

  The others in the room backed off, muttering.

  Sartain turned and winked at Dewey Dade. The kid smiled, depressed his rifle’s hammer, and walked back off down the second-floor hall.

  “I could have handled it, Mike,” Dixie said.

  “I didn’t want you to have to handle it by yourself.”

  “They probably don’t believe you anyway.”

  “No, but they’re not as sure as they were. And they know I’m not afraid of ’em.” Sartain squeezed the back of her neck reassuringly. “If you need anything, give a yell. I’m gonna go check on my horse, make sure he’s ready to ride first thing in the morning.”