Bloody Trail (4 page)

The mines were a place he hoped he’d never
have to work. He hated the thought of living his life in a rat hole
as much as many hated the thought of working hammer and tongs next
to white iron while a forge at your back hiked the temperature in
the shop well above the hundred-degree mark, even when the horse
troughs outside got a shimmer of ice on their surface from a Kansas
norther. But he should never have to become a mine rat, as his
business was doing just fine, enough to support both himself and
his partner. And he liked fire and iron.

And they did fine, he and Emory. One always
trying to outwork the other was a good basis for a business, and a
partnership.

At first glance, the shop might fool many as,
if not for the forge, it looked as much like a ship’s chandlery as
an ironsmith’s abode. It had rigging that recalled the block and
tackle of many a ship, rigging used to move heavy iron and
wheel-less wagons around the space. This was because Angus had
spent many an early year aboard ship, both on the river and in the
Gulf of Mexico, learning the trade of a smithy while pounding out
chains, anchors, rigging, connections, repairing boilers, and even
doing fine decorative work—fancy hatch hinges, latches, and running
lights—of both sailing and steam vessels. He had also become a
master with rope rigging and could tie a blight, crown knot, or
barrel hitch with the best of them, but Wolf Creek had little use
for decorative knots, and the hangman’s noose was about as fancy as
he’d been called upon to preform since he’d settled
here.

Angus and Emory alike were happy to fill their
days with simple work. They had each had more than enough
excitement in their lives, in one way or another, to last them.
Wolf Creek was just the town for both of them, they told each other
more than once. On a summer day like this—peaceful and quiet, so
long as one stayed north of Dogleg City—that seemed truer than
ever.

CHAPTER TWO

Wil Marsh, Wolf Creek’s photographer, had felt
like death warmed over when he had woken up. A late night at the
Wolf’s Den had significantly lightened his wallet. He was not sure
which had been more responsible; Ira Breedlove’s rot-gut whiskey,
or the house gambler Preston Vance’s skill with the cards. He had
no doubt that the whiskey had given him the gut ache and caused his
eyes to feel as if they had been taken out, rubbed in the dirt and
stuck back in again. He was less sure whether Vance was the
fine-skilled Virginian gambler that he claimed to be or just a
highly competent card sharp.

After a retching session and a hasty ablution,
he headed off to his studio. He had thought of going past Li Wong’s
laundry to see if he could try a little flirtation with the
beautiful exotic Jing Jing, whom he lusted after. Feeling as bad as
he did, he reckoned he might not be at his most appealing, so he
made his way across ‘Useless Grant’ Street, and on toward Birdie’s
General Store on North Street where he bought tobacco and a fresh
supply of coffee. Then he went across the street to the telegraph
office.

Dave Maynard, the telegrapher, was a man of
few words. He dealt with Marsh’s telegram to Wichita for more
chemicals for his photographic studio with silent efficiency. It
amused Marsh that a man whose work revolved around communication
could be so shy that he barely ever said a word to anyone. He
reckoned that was why the guy seemed to be a confirmed bachelor.
Yet, Marsh’s hangover was making him feel cantankerous enough to
want to jibe some conversation out of the reticent
telegrapher.

“
I see you got lots of burns on
your arms,” he remarked. He pulled back a sleeve and showed his own
arm. “I get chemical burns in my line of work, as well.” He smirked
internally, for his burns had been from a time in his past when he,
too, had been a telegraph operator and had to tend to the lead-acid
batteries.

Dave Maynard looked up and blushed. He had not
really talked to the photographer before. He wasn’t the sort that
he naturally took to. He thought that Wil Marsh was shifty, and
always seemed to be on the lookout for something. He guessed he had
a past he didn’t want to reveal…kind of like half the folk who had
settled in Wolf Creek.

“
Yes, folks don’t realize how the
acid in these batteries burns.”

Marsh persisted and forced conversation, all
the time keeping an eye on what was going on outside. He noted
everything. He spotted Mason Wright carrying a tray of bread and
pies, presumably heading toward the Imperial Hotel. He saw the tall
figure of Derrick McCain stride past. And he observed the wagon
with a tarpaulin covering its load being hauled along North Street
by a mule. A horse was tethered to the back and trotted along
behind it. He didn’t recognize the driver, a surly-looking fellow
with lank red hair and a cigar hanging languidly from the corner of
his mouth.

“
Now, me, I plan to make enough
money here in Wolf Creek, and then I’m headed East. I just need to
take me some really sensational photographs to sell to some of
those fancy newspapers and magazines.”

Dave Maynard nodded his head in the direction
of the window. “What about the Wolf Creek Expositor? David
Appleford is making that newspaper of his really sell in these
parts.”

Marsh was non-committal. He had not exactly
hit it off with the newsman so far. Instead, he resumed his
discourse about eastern magazines and his plans for the
future.

A few moments later, he saw a second wagon
pass and turn onto Fourth Street. Strangely, as soon as he had
turned the corner, he began turning the mule round as if to come
back on itself.

“
What’s that fool think he’s
doing?” Marsh sneered. “He’s going to get stuck.”

They watched as the driver jumped down,
circled the wagon and drew back a tarpaulin. He fiddled with
something in the back of the wagon, then took out his cigar, blew
on it and applied it to the contents of the wagon. Moments later
they saw flames, and then thick smoke started to curl
upward.

“
Shit! What the hell is he doing?”
Marsh exclaimed.

From a couple of streets away came the sound
of a gunshot. Then, as Marsh and Maynard stared in horror, the man
drew his gun from its holster and circled the wagon again. The mule
was snorting in alarm and trying to move away from the burning load
behind it.

The man raised his gun and shot the animal
between the eyes.

****

Jim Danby took a final glance at his watch
then stowed it inside his vest. He ran the back of his hand against
the three days’ growth of stubble on his cheek and stretched
himself in the saddle. He was a lean, rangy man of about thirty
with a ready, toothy smile and cruel eyes. A product of the War, he
and his men had ridden with Quantrill and reveled in the Lawrence
Raid. Since then, under his leadership, the Danby gang had become
one of the most successful and feared gangs in the West. They had
parlayed their wartime skills into bank-robbing. And in Danby’s
eyes, they were the best, because he was the best. Planning and
ruthless execution were his tenets.

“
Any moment now,” he said to Wes
Hammond, his lieutenant and comrade of almost ten years.

Wes Hammond nodded dispassionately. Unlike
Danby, he was not given to smiling, unless he was doing what he was
best at—hurting people. He was about the same age and build as his
boss, although with his longer hair, petulant lips and clean-shaven
face he looked somewhat younger. He nodded and pulled his hat
firmly down on his head.

Danby put a hand on the pommel of his saddle
and turned round to face the twenty mounted men. They had gathered
out of sight of the town in the trees that fringed the boulders on
the other side of Wolf Creek. “Okay boys, we go in as planned, as
soon as we hear the first two shots. We cross the ford and hit the
town. I’ll take the first column down the main street. Wes will
lead the other down the first left, then along Lincoln Street. You
all know the layout.”

Wes turned in his saddle. He drew out his
beloved .42 Le Mat cap and ball black powder revolver. Not made for
fast drawing, it was virtually a one-man artillery piece. With nine
shots in its cylinder for shooting from the regular barrel, it also
had an 18-gauge shotgun barrel beneath for its tenth shot. He
hefted it in his hand and raised it. It had been a popular piece
among various elements of the Confederacy. It took time to load—but
as a killing piece, he was proud of it. And on a raid such as this,
once he had discharged every round, he had his Navy Colts to fall
back on.

“
We are all armed to the teeth.
This will go as smooth as silk. We’re going to divide up into
threes and fours. Each group will take one of the sections of the
two main streets. Bates and Milton will already have cut the town
in two and contained the law, so one man from each group will cover
all the alleys and side streets in his section. If anyone so much
as pops their head into an alley, discourage them. If they won’t
stay discouraged—kill them.”

Danby grinned. Although Wes had needed to be
shown who was the master in their early days, he liked to think
that he had inculcated and refined a streak of ruthlessness in him.
“Ketch and Jackson, you two know what you have to do?”

A stocky young rider at the back grinned.
“Sure we know, boss. We shoot every damned horse we
see.”

Danby clicked his tongue “Good man!” He pulled
up his bandanna and signaled for the gang members to do
likewise.

Two separate shots rang out from different
parts of the town, and thick smoke started to rise into the blue
sky. Moments later the Danby gang hit the ford over Wolf Creek and
galloped toward the town.

****

Bill Torrance, owner of the Wolf Creek Livery
Stable, was looking forward to an easy day, the first one he’d had
in several weeks. The last of the trail herds had been shipped
three days previously. With the Texas cowhands who drove those
herds now headed back home his stable was more than half empty, the
only horses in his care those of his regular clients.

By eight-thirty, Bill had already completed
the heavy chores of the day. The horses were fed, watered, and most
turned into the corral. All the stalls had been mucked out, the
soiled bedding and manure dumped into the ever-growing pile out
back. While Bill wasn’t bothered by the smell of horse manure, in
fact rather enjoying its earthy pungency, the fly-attracting,
odiferous mound was a bone of contention between himself and the
pastor and congregation of the nearby church.

“
Now that you’re all nice and
shiny, reckon it’s time I wash up too, Cholla,” Bill told his big
paint gelding, giving the horse’s bay and white splotched coat a
final swipe of the currycomb. “You wait here while I get my
stuff.”

Bill’s horse snorted, then nuzzled his
shoulder in reply. Cholla was rarely secured in his stall, mostly
having the run of the stable, and a small corral of his own. He’d
been with Bill for years, the man and equine having a deep bond,
far beyond the usual relationship between a rider and horse. Bill
himself had an almost mystical connection with horses. People had
always said Bill seemed to speak horses’ language. If fact, Bill
would be the first to admit he preferred the company of horses to
that of most people he’d met, and understood equines far better
than humans.

Bill headed into the small room at the back of
the stable which was his living quarters. He removed a bar of soap,
washcloth, towel, and his shaving kit from a battered five-drawer
chest, then headed outside, to the back of the stable, Cholla
following. He had an old horse trough there which served as a
washbasin, along with a mirror hanging from the barn wall. Bill
placed his gear on the bench alongside the trough, then peeled off
his shirt, revealing a puckered bullet scar high on the right side
of his chest, along with an old saber scar which ran diagonally
across his belly, from just under his left breast almost to his
right hip. He ducked his head in the trough, soaking his unruly
thatch of sandy hair. Cholla nuzzled insistently at Bill’s
shoulder, nickering.

“
Will you cut it out, horse?” Bill
chided. “I know you’re jealous, just ’cause I had supper with Ann
Haselton last night, rather’n you.”

Bill had been an enigma to the citizens of
Wolf Creek since his arrival over a year back. He’d ridden into
town with no gun on his hip or rifle on his saddle, and since then
had given no indication he’d ever touched a weapon. He bought the
livery—which was in an advanced state of disrepair—from old Walt
Corriher, then spent almost all his time fixing up the place and
caring for his equine charges. Except for occasional visits to the
Eldorado Saloon, and his regular meals at Ma’s Café, Bill basically
kept to himself. He’d never even been seen entering Abby Potter’s
“Boarding House”, to be entertained by one of her girls, nor, to
anyone’s knowledge, had he partaken of the services of the many
prostitutes available in Dogleg City.

“
Doggone it, I said cut it out,”
Bill repeated, when Cholla placed his muzzle into the small of
Bill’s back and shoved. “If I want to go out with a lady, I’m gonna
do just that. Besides, I’d imagine Miss Ann has much prettier legs
than yours, pard.”

A smile played across Bill’s face, and his
gray eyes sparkled at the memory of last evening. Ann Haselton,
Wolf Creek’s schoolteacher, had been dropping not-so-subtle hints
for quite some time she was interested in getting to know him
better. After months, Bill had finally worked up the courage to ask
her to supper, and she’d accepted. Instead of Bill’s usual place,
Ma’s, they’d gone to Isabella’s Restaurant, where Antonio, the
owner, had provided a sumptuous meal. From Isabella’s they went to
the Imperial Hotel for pie and coffee. Everything was perfectly
proper, of course, in keeping with Ann’s position as schoolmarm.
When Bill escorted her back to her small cottage on Lincoln Street,
two doors from the schoolhouse, their goodbye had been a handshake,
not a kiss. He’d also made sure plenty of people saw Ann go inside,
alone.