Savage and the others caught up with Bannister just before noon the following day. They were still camped where Morris had the herd bedded for the past few days. His first words were, ‘Where’s that son of a bitch, Breen?’
‘He ain’t here. Was long gone by the time we got here.’
Savage cursed.
Bannister said, ‘I see you found the woman.’
Savage glanced at Mavis and nodded. ‘Her and more.’
He went on to tell him about the Comanches. ‘You have much trouble?’
‘Nope. I gave them the option of moving on or staying here, permanent.’
‘How’d they take that?’
‘Bitched and moaned. But I did find out a snippet of information that may interest you.’
Savage was intrigued. ‘Do tell.’
‘It seems that they weren’t headed to Cheyenne. Breen has a partner up on the South Platte. That’s where they were headed.’
The Drifter was confused. ‘What’s up there?’
‘It seems that they’re building a new railhead. Complete with a town, yards, and there are already herds on the way north with that in mind.’
‘You mean they’re cutting out Cheyenne?’
‘Yep.’
‘That could spell trouble.’
‘There’s a feller in Cheyenne who might think the same way. His name is French. He’s the local stock agent there. He buys all the cattle and then sells them on to the buyers from back east at a healthy profit. And when I say all, I mean all.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I might’ve dealt with him once or twice.’
Savage digested the information and said, ‘That’s where we’ll head. The new railhead.’
‘I thought you might say that. I sent word for Breen to expect us. You, actually.’
‘How are we off for supplies?’ Savage asked.
‘They shouldn’t be a problem for the moment. Maybe after we get to the other side of Raton Pass you could send someone for some more.’
‘Okay. Speaking of the toll, I might ride on ahead and see how much it really is going to cost us. If it’s too much, we might have to find another way.’
Bannister nodded. ‘There are other ways but once you’re up there, it would play hell getting the herd turned. Best we know beforehand.’
‘I’ll take the kid with me when I go.’
The expression on Bannister’s face changed at the mention of it. ‘Are you sure you want to take him? Why not one of the others?’
‘Are you afraid he might try to kill me or something?’
‘No. I’m afraid you might kill him.’
‘You worry too much. I’ve seen his kind before. All piss and vinegar outside while inside is like a little baby waiting to get out.’
Bannister gave him a wry smile. ‘Yeah, a baby with a blazing six-gun.’
‘It’s all good.’
‘What about the woman?’
Savage looked at Mavis again, seated by herself near the chuckwagon. She looked to be in her own world once more.
‘That’s something we’ll have to sort out. Come with me.’
They approached Mavis and stood in front of her. Savage doubted she was even aware of their presence until he spoke.
‘Mavis?’
She looked up at him and Bannister. Her expression changed from blank to one of recognition when she saw the outlaw boss. ‘What’s that cow thief doing here?’
The Drifter glanced at the smiling Bannister. ‘Does she know you?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Everyone knows Mike Bannister,’ Mavis hissed. ‘The man’s a cow thief.’
‘You’re right, Bannister, she does know you.’
‘What can I say, I’m famous.’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Mavis snapped.
Savage stared at her. ‘That cow thief just got your herd back for you.’
Mavis’ eyebrows shot up and she looked around. It was clear she was not fully aware of her surroundings.
‘Is this …?’
Savage nodded. ‘It’s your herd. We got it back for you.’
Her eyes flitted back and forth as if she were seeing them for the first time. ‘They said you were dead.’
‘Damn near.’
‘What happens now?’ Mavis asked.
‘That kind of depends on you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it? Maybe we could …’
‘No, now’s good,’ she said.
Savage nodded. ‘Okay. I hired these men to get your herd back and to take them to the railhead. All you have to do is pay them when we arrive, and the herd is sold.’
She gave Bannister a skeptical look. ‘If they don’t steal the herd first. I can’t imagine they would do anything for thirty a month.’
‘They won’t. Once the herd is sold you will pay every man five-hundred dollars. Mike gets a thousand. I get nothing. In return …’
Mavis leapt to her feet, all signs of her ordeal had suddenly disappeared. ‘The hell I will. If you think I’m paying them that much, you’re crazy.’
Savage pressed on. ‘In return, they will drive the cattle all the way to the railhead and if need be, they’ll fight for you as well. Besides, you’ll pay out the best part of ten thousand and still have forty left. It’s a damn sight more than what Breen was leaving you with.’
He was right, and she knew it. She shifted her gaze back to Bannister. ‘What if I still say no?’
‘Either way, ma’am, this herd is going to the railhead.’
‘I guess I don’t have much choice then, do I?’
‘No, ma’am.’
Savage said, ‘You’ve got my word, and Mike’s, that we’ll get your herd where it needs to go.’
Mavis’ shoulders sagged in resignation.
‘There is one other thing,’ Savage continued.
‘Yes?’
‘We’re not going to Cheyenne.’
She stared at him, her mind working. Then her eyebrows shot up once more. ‘You’re taking them to the new railhead where Breen is going to be, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘But why?’
‘I can’t kill him from Cheyenne now, can I?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘The other thing I would like to do is drop you off somewhere while we complete the drive. A town, maybe.’
‘No!’
‘After what you’ve been through, I think you’d be better off.’
‘No!”
‘Damn it!’ Savage cursed.
‘If you’re going there to kill Breen for what he did, then I want to be there to watch. After all, none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for that bastard.’
Savage looked at Bannister. The latter shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘If she comes, she works like the rest of us.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘She can help Grub around the camp.’
‘Can you do that?’ Savage asked her.
‘You seem to forget these are my cows.’
‘Can you do that?’ Savage repeated.
She nodded.
‘Good. That’s settled.’
Their next stop was the kid, Hanson. When they approached, he stared warily at Savage.
The Drifter said, ‘You and I are taking a ride tomorrow. We’ll be gone four or five days, so we’ll grab some food before we leave.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Raton Pass. I want to see how much money we’ll have to hand over to get through the gate.’
‘Why me? Take one of the others.’
Savage’s gaze hardened. ‘You’re coming. Have someone else take care of the remuda until you get back. If you don’t like that, then collect your time and dust.’
There was fire in the young man’s eyes as he turned away and stalked off. Bannister watched him go. He said, ‘Don’t push him too far, Savage. He won’t take much more.’
‘He needs to learn self-control. If he keeps going through life the way he is, someone will put a bullet in him.’
Raton Pass
Toll Road.
The front door of the two-storey stone-built home opened and slammed shut, its noise echoed throughout the building, followed by the sound of heels on the floorboards.
The slim frame of Milo Craig came in through the open door of the saloon part of the building and found the man he was looking for sitting at a round table with an almost empty bottle of whiskey.
‘There’s a wagon approaching, Beck. Don’t look like much.’
Beck nodded his unshaven, shaggy head. ‘All right, get the others.’
The outlaw’s voice was a deep, baritone rumble. He looked across at Denver and said, ‘Just do like we say and there’ll be no trouble.’
Denver’s face showed concern. After all, it was his place that Beck and his men had taken over and there was nothing he could do about it. They were the ones with the guns, not him. They’d taken all his weapons away and locked them in the food store.
Denver nodded. ‘Okay.’
There were three other men with Greg Beck, one-time border raider, full-time outlaw. Tic, a young killer from Kansas who had shot down the father of a young woman he was sparking because the father didn’t approve of him. Groves, a stagecoach specialist before he met Beck and Welsh, who did over anything that paid, regardless of whether it paid well or not.
They walked outside and stood on the veranda. Coming along the rutted trail from the Colorado side was a Conestoga wagon drawn by a four-horse team. Two men armed with rifles sat side by side on the hard, timber seat. A third, similarly armed, rode a bay horse and brought up the rear.
The guns and their owners immediately drew Beck’s attention, warranting closer inspection.
‘Well now,’ Milo said, stepping up to the outlaw leader’s side, ‘that seems like a lot of firepower for a wagon hauling freight.’
Beck agreed. ‘My thoughts exactly. Be ready.’ He turned to Denver. ‘I’ll be watching you.’
The wagon rolled up to the chain that blocked its passage and stopped. Denver walked down the narrow path from his house.
‘H—howdy gents,’ he managed to get out after the greeting caught in his dry throat. ‘You all come far?’
The driver gave him an impatient glance before letting his gaze wander to Beck and his men. ‘Far enough. How much?’
Denver gave Beck a nervous look before he said, ‘Twenty-dollars.’
The man on the seat beside the driver just about fell off it. ‘Twenty? You’ve got to be shitting me. Twenty-dollars just to use this damned strip of dirt.’
Beck stepped forward to the edge of the veranda. ‘Takes a mite of effort to keep the road fit for travel. Costs money, too.’
The passenger snorted. ‘Well, I guess business has been slack, ’cause that track ain’t had shit done to it in recent times.’
‘Ease up, Bert,’ the driver cautioned him. ‘Just give the man the money.’
With a grunt of anger, the man called Bert dug into his pocket and took a roll of bills out, peeled one off, and gave it to Denver.
‘Hope you damn well choke on it,’ he growled.
Out of the blue, Beck asked, ‘What ya all hauling?’
The driver said, ‘Mining supplies.’
A lie, Beck assumed when he saw the rider at the rear of the wagon change the way his Sharps carbine was placed. Then the outlaw frowned when he saw the brand on the horse. A U.S. cavalry brand.
Beck hissed out of the corner of his mouth at Milo. ‘Milo, kill them!’
Beck’s Colt Navy was set up for a cross draw and his right hand streaked across his body and grasped the walnut grips. The weapon came free of the holster and as it rose, he thumbed back the hammer.
His first shot was aimed at Bert and the slug slammed into the man’s head and blew his brains all over the driver’s face.
Shock registered on the man’s face as the flat report of the six-gun sounded and Bert’s brains splattered across him. He fought to regain control of himself and made to bring his rifle into action, but it had only traveled a few inches before Milo shot him in the chest.
He tumbled from the seat and hit the ground, out of sight behind the team of horses. The team lurched forward and dislodged the slumped form of Bert. He hit the ground in an untidy heap and as the spooked team of horses lurched even further forward, the heavy wagon rolled over him and cut him almost in half. The chain across the road pulled them up.
While this was happening, the last man managed to snap off a shot that found flesh. The heavy caliber slug struck Groves just below the bottom rib on the left side. It punched through his innards and blew a fist-sized hole in his back on exit, with a shower of bright-red blood.
The outlaw grunted and sank to his knees, the numbness of shock keeping the pain away.
The Sharps in the rider’s hands would never fire again. Three bullets from Beck, Milo, and Tic ripped into his chest and knocked him from his horse. He hit the ground with an audible thump and didn’t move.
As the last of the gunfire rolled away across the landscape, there was movement from behind the horse team.
The driver stood up on unsteady legs, a bloody stain obvious on his chest. He gritted his teeth against the pain and fought to bring up a six-gun in his right hand.
Beck sighted along the barrel of his own smoking weapon and fired one last shot.
The driver’s head snapped back, a dark hole appearing in his forehead as his eyes rolled upward. His legs gave out and he slumped to the ground.
Amidst all the violence, Denver stood trembling uncontrollably as shock descended upon him.
A moan caught Beck’s ear and he turned to see Groves hunched over just off the end of the veranda. The outlaw boss called out to Milo, ‘Get rid of the bodies and take the wagon around back. I want to see what’s in it.’
Milo said, ‘Sure.’
Beck walked over to Groves and looked down at him. ‘Are you okay?’
The wounded man looked up at him through pain-filled eyes. ‘Bastard got me good, Beck. My hands are holding my guts in. I need a doctor or I’m going to die.’
He coughed, a wet, wracking cough that shook his body and left him breathless.
Beck nodded and drew his six-gun. He thumbed back the hammer and shot the wounded man in the head. ‘Sorry, ain’t going to happen.’
The wagon rattled as it was driven around the house to the back. The bodies were dumped into a dry creek some hundred yards away from the road. It had steep banks which the outlaws collapsed over the corpses.
Once the wagon was sequestered way, and the horses put in the corral, they started to go through the wagon.
What they found were sacks of flour, grain, a small pack of lumber, and some other odds and ends, but nothing of value.
‘There’s nothing here, Beck,’ said Milo.
‘Keep looking. There’s something, somewhere.’
It took a while, but they finally found the false bottom in the wagon, along with the cache inside of it. Beck figured there to be around twenty-thousand dollars in notes and coin.
‘What are we going to do with all of this?’ Milo asked Beck.
The outlaw leader stared at it for a moment and then said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Are we going to give it to French?’
A long pause.
Then: ‘Not all of it. Keep some aside for us. The rest he can have. Get a count and then give us half.’
Milo nodded. ‘What happened with Groves?’
‘I killed him.’
‘Why?’
‘He was dying. Gut shot.’
‘Uh huh,’ Milo said, and left it at that.
Savage and the kid arrived the following day. It was late in the afternoon and the Drifter figured they would spend the night there and start back to the herd the next morning.
It had been a quiet ride. Savage had given up trying to make conversation with the young hot-head after the first few hours of travel. Now they were approaching the double-storey home-come-hotel at the toll gate.
There was a hitchrail just off the road at the base of the house and the riders drew their mounts up to it. Savage had noticed a corral out the back and thought they would be able to keep the horses there.
Before they’d even dismounted, they saw five men exit through a doorway to stand on the veranda.
Savage noticed the way Hanson stiffened when he saw them. Without waiting for the kid to do anything foolish he said, ‘Cool it kid.’
Hanson glared at him over the back of his horse but remained silent.
Beck called out to them, ‘Howdy, gents. Come far?’
‘Far enough to work up a mighty big hunger,’ Savage said. ‘Thought maybe we could get a meal here?’
‘Sure, sure. Old Denver here knows his way around the kitchen right smart.’
Savage looked at the man Beck had indicated and saw the nervous expression on his face. He said, ‘I’m real glad to hear that. My stomach was starting to think my throat was cut.’
Beck gave them a disarming smile. ‘Why don’t you all put your horses in the corral and then come on inside. It’ll save you doing it later. Milo can help you out.’
Milo stepped forward at the mention of his name.
Savage shook his head. ‘No need. We can take care of it. I tell you what though, after we get that done, maybe we could buy you folks a drink for being so hospitable.’
‘Why, that’s right generous of you,’ said Beck. ‘You’ll find the corral around the back.’
Savage and the kid took their horses out to the corral under the watchful eye of the outlaw boss.
‘Watch them,’ he said to Milo.
When they arrived at the corral, Savage asked, ‘You know that feller?’
Hanson nodded. ‘His name’s Greg Beck. Outlaw son of a bitch.’
Savage smiled faintly. ‘You sure.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
‘What do you figure they’re up to?’
Hanson shrugged.
Savage took the saddle off the roan and sat it on the top rail of the corral fence. He let the horse in through the gate where it could mingle with the few there. That was when he saw the second thing that set his nerves on edge.
‘Hey, kid. You notice anything strange about these horses?’
Hanson was about to growl at the Drifter for calling him kid but stopped when he saw what Savage saw.
‘They’ve got U.S. Army brands on them.’
‘Exactly. You see any such people around here?’
‘They could be inside.’
‘Maybe, but I doubt it.’
The kid gave Savage a serious look. Gone was the disdain that the Drifter saw every time Hanson stared at him. ‘What do you want to do?’
Savage shrugged. ‘Ride the trail and see where it leads. That Denver feller, he looked pretty nervous to me.’
The kid nodded. ‘He’s usually more chipper than what he was before.’
‘You know him then?’
‘We’ve been through here on the odd occasion.’
‘Uh huh. C’mon, let’s go have something to eat. I’m starving.’
Savage left the saddle over the top rail and took his Yellow boy and saddlebags with him.
Savage sipped his drink and placed the half-full glass on the table with a clunk. Looking from beneath the brim of his pulled down hat, he studied the men in the room with practiced eyes. Every one of them was a killer, that was easily seen, and the way they treated Denver left a lot to be desired. They didn’t even try to conceal their meanness.
The one he knew as Milo stood at the long, hardwood bar while the other two sat at a corner table.
Denver crossed the room to where Savage and the kid sat and placed a plate of stew in front of each of them. It was thick with gravy and lean on meat.
The kid looked at his plate and pulled a face. ‘Shit, Savage, maybe we should leave a cow or two here when we pass through, for the next poor bastard who gets a plate of whatever the hell this is.’
The Drifter glared across the table at Hanson.
The kid frowned and mouthed, ‘What?’
‘Did I hear your name is Savage?’ Beck asked from where he sat at a nearby table, drinking whiskey.
The Drifter stiffened and glanced at the Yellow Boy leaning against the table at his elbow. On his lap under the table was the Remington. If anything was to happen, this would be the weapon he’d go for.
Savage forked some stew into his mouth and turned his head to the left. Beck was still looking at him, expecting an answer.
‘Could be,’ Savage said.
‘The same feller who went on that revenge ride that every second feller is talking about? Killed all those men who did for your wife? How many was it? Twelve? Fifteen?’
Savage shook his head and said in a quiet tone, ‘It weren’t that many.’
A forkful of stew stopped halfway to Hanson’s mouth. ‘Shit, I heard of you. I sure as heck didn’t know it was you though. Damn.’
The Drifter went back to eating.
‘So, you fellers bringing a herd through, are you?’ Beck asked.
Savage nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘Where you taking it? Denver? Cheyenne?’
Hanson opened his mouth to speak when Savage cut him off. ‘Cheyenne.’
The kid stared at him for a moment and went back to his stew.
‘How many head you got?’
‘Couple of thousand.’
The Drifter could almost hear Beck’s mind tick over as he was calculating the toll.
‘How much is it going to cost us to take the herd through?’ Savage asked.
‘Dollar a head,’ Beck answered.
Two-thousand dollars, Savage thought. It was more than they had. ‘I was told it would cost around five cents.’
Beck shrugged. ‘Price increase.’
Anger was bubbling just below the surface for the kid, and Savage could see it. He said, ‘How’s the stew, kid? Fills a hole, huh?’
Hanson’s eyes flashed and then settled on Savage. ‘Yeah.’
‘When do you expect you’ll be bringing the cows through?’ Beck asked.
‘In a about a week or so,’ Savage said. ‘Although I think we might have to go around now.’
Beck’s face hardened. ‘Why?’
There was noise from outside.
‘That’ll be the Santa Fe stage,’ said Denver. ‘It’s running a little late.’
Beck scowled at him for interrupting.
‘I’ll go see to it. They’ll need a change of horses.’
‘Take Milo with you to give you a hand.’
Denver opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut when he changed his mind.
Savage watched both men leave the room and had a feeling that things were about to get worse than they already were.
Beck turned his attention back to Savage. ‘Now, where were we?’
Savage ignored him and kept eating.
‘That’s right, you were about to tell me why you were going to take the long way around.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
Beck sat up straight, a cold glint in his eye. ‘Yes, you were.’
The Drifter rested his fork on his plate and stared at the outlaw. He breathed out slowly, his right hand already resting on the Remington.
‘Well?’ asked Beck.
The hammer snicked back.
The tension could be cut with a knife.
Savage took a deep breath and started to move the six-gun when gunshots sounded from outside.
Beck lurched to his feet and rushed toward the door with the others. When they’d disappeared, the Drifter climbed to his feet and the kid watched him as he slid the Remington back into his holster.
‘You’re a careful man I see,’ Hanson said.
‘Same as you.’
Hanson raised his own six-gun from under the table. ‘How …?’
‘I heard the hammer going back. Come on, let’s get out there and see what has happened.’
Savage picked up the Yellow Boy and headed outside.
As soon as Savage hit the veranda, he took in the scene before him that was bathed in the orange glow of sunset.
A man stood beside the stage, arms up, hands held at shoulder height. The outlaw, Milo, stood with his six-gun trained on him. Savage guessed him to be the driver. He was a rail-thin man with a bushy mustache and unkempt, graying hair. His clothes were covered in dust.
Around ten yards from him lay another man. Most likely the shotgun guard. The Drifter guessed he was dead as he was unmoving.
The kid murmured, ‘This don’t look good.’
Ignoring him, Savage studied the other passengers. There were four of them. Three men and a woman. The latter had her head buried in the shoulder of a man maybe half a head taller than she was, as he consoled her.
The other two men showed the strain of the situation etched in their faces.
‘There was no need to shoot him, you son of a bitch!’
Savage’s eyes snapped back to the driver.
‘He shouldn’t have tried to shoot me with that scattergun of his,’ Milo said.
‘He wasn’t nowhere near it. You shot him down cold. And all because we wouldn’t pay ten dollars for the lousy toll. Ten dollars! You killed him for a lousy ten dollars.’
‘Everybody inside,’ Beck snarled. ‘Milo, get the stage around the back while I figure out what we’re going to do.’
Beck shifted his gaze back to Savage. ‘That means you two as well.’
The Drifter sensed rather than saw the tension come back to the kid’s body.
He said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Leave it, kid. They’ll get theirs. Just not yet. I want to find out what their game is.’
They followed the others inside and found Milo and Beck in deep discussion. The outlaws stopped when they saw Savage and the kid come through the door.
‘What do you figure that’s about?’ Hanson asked.
A look of grim determination came over the outlaws’ faces, and they moved to close the gap between themselves, Hanson and Savage.
It was highly probable that nothing would happen, but when Milo dropped his hand to his gun butt, it was enough for Savage.
The Yellow Boy in his grasp swept up and roared. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space and it rocked the room. The .44 Henry slug slammed into Milo’s chest and kicked him back. He staggered and dropped to the floor, a scarlet blossom on his shirt growing larger as life-giving blood flowed freely.
Savage’s sudden movement and the subsequent violence of it all took everyone by surprise. So much so that the Drifter had already jacked another round into the Winchester’s chamber before they even thought to react.
By then it was too late.
‘What the hell?’ Beck snarled. ‘Christ, what did you do that for?’
The Yellow Boy centered on the outlaw’s chest. Savage said, ‘Just getting in first.’
‘Dude, that was fast,’ there was awe in the kid’s voice. ‘But what happened to wait and see?’
‘Keep the others covered,’ Savage ordered. ‘The rest of you assholes, drop your gun belts before you join your friend on the floor.’
The mask of hatred on Beck’s face stood out like a beacon. ‘You’re a dead man, Savage.’
‘Shut up and do as you’re told.’
Three, gun belts thudded to the floor.
In the background, Savage could hear the woman’s sobs.
‘Denver?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Have the woman taken upstairs and then come back here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Denver ushered the man and woman out the door to the stairway. Once they were gone, Savage said to the stage driver, ‘Get their guns.’
‘Yeah, right,’ he growled.
Beck clenched his jaw.
‘What’s your angle, Beck?’ Savage asked. ‘Why are you fellers here?’
‘We work for Denver,’ Beck lied.
A cold smile touched Savage’s lips. ‘And I’m the President’s butler. Cut the shit and try again.’
‘They work for Barnaby French.’
All eyes stared at Denver who’d returned.
‘Shut up, Denver,’ Beck grated.
But the toll man wouldn’t be silenced. ‘They were sent down from Cheyenne to get as much money as they could from all of those who passed through here. By any means necessary.’
‘I said shut the hell up, Denver.’
‘They killed an army detail yesterday and took the money they were carrying in their wagon.’
Beck snarled and started to lunge toward the toll man. He got two steps before the Winchester in Savage’s hands roared and the slug smashed into the outlaw’s leg just above the knee.
He gave a loud yelp and fell into a heap on the floor. He grabbed at the wound as it pumped blood between his fingers.
‘You damned bastard son of a bitch!’ Beck snarled. ‘I’ll frigging kill you!’
Savage’s voice was cold. ‘Not in this lifetime. I was fixing to let you all go. That was before. Instead, you’re going to hang.’
Beck snorted. ‘You got to get us to a town first.’
The Drifter shook his head. ‘You ain’t going to no town. You’ll hang right here in the morning. I saw a tree out the back that’ll do just fine for it.’
‘You can’t just hang all three of us without a trial.’
‘I’m not going to. I’m just going to hang you. Your friends can take their horses and deliver a message to French for me.’
It finally dawned on Beck that his life was forfeit. It had run its bloody and violent course. Now he would go out of this world, kicking and fouling himself at the end of a rope.
‘Shoot me.’
‘What?’
‘You ain’t going to hang me, Savage. Shoot me now.’
‘You’ll get what you deserve.’ Savage looked at Denver. ‘You got somewhere we can lock him up?’
The gatekeeper nodded. ‘I got me a nice cold-cellar the bastard can rot in.’
The Drifter nodded. ‘Kid, help Denver get him down there while I have a word to these other no-goods.’
‘Are you sure you just don’t want to shoot him?’ Hanson asked.
‘It sounds tempting, but I think a long drop is more appropriate.’
The kid nodded, and he and Denver got the wounded, protesting outlaw to his feet and carted him away.
Savage turned to face the other two. ‘Right, listen to me, and listen good. If I ever see any of you again, I’ll kill you. No second chances. Make sure you tell French what happened here and if he wants to look me up, he’ll find me in a new town called Dobson on the South Platte.’
They nodded.
‘Now, get your horses and get out of here.’
After they had gone, one of the stagecoach passengers, a man wearing a suit, asked, ‘You aren’t really going to hang that man tomorrow without a trial, are you?’
Savage looked at him, stone-faced. ‘Just as soon as the sun comes up.’
The tree had once been struck by lightning. A long, open scar ran down one side of the trunk where the bolt had laid it bare. The top half had been shattered, splintered. All that remained was a small peak with very little growth and one branch which stuck out to the left, thick and strong.
It was over this that the rope with the noose at the end of it was thrown. The loop hung in front of the outlaw’s face, a sign of his impending doom, as he sat astride a bay.
Savage reached up and put it over his head and brought the knot up firm.
‘You got any last words?’ the Drifter asked.
The hatred on Beck’s face was quite visible. ‘Frig you, you son of a bitch.’
‘Is that how you want to do it? Go out cursing and screaming.’
‘It ain’t your neck about to get stretched, is it? Asshole. You ain’t got no right to be doing this. You ain’t the law. You ain’t –’
His words were chopped off as the bay lurched forward and the outlaw became unseated. The noose took up any slack that was left and the strangulation commenced in a flail of kicking legs and jerks.
Savage stared into the smiling face of the kid and knew right away what had happened.
The kid shrugged. ‘I hope he was ready to go. I was kinda getting bored with all his yowling.’
Savage shook his head and turned away from the still-swinging body.
About an hour later, after the stage was gone, Savage had finished saddling the roan when he was approached by Denver.
‘Mr. Savage. I just wanted to thank you for everything that you’ve done for me.’
‘Think nothing of it. He was a bad man who needed killing. If it weren’t us that did it, the law would’ve.’
Denver nodded. ‘Still, once you get here with your herd you’ll have free passage over the pass.’
‘Much appreciated, Denver. We’ll see you in around a week. Probably be less by the time we get back to the herd if they’ve been moving all right.’
‘I’ll see you then.’
‘See you then.’
Dobson sat on a flat plain near the South Platte River which provided all the water required by the town.
The first thing Brit noticed when he rode into town, was the size of the stock pens. He figured they could hold at least ten-thousand more head than Cheyenne could. The rail line was sited right alongside them, with five loading chutes so multiple railcars could be loaded at any one time.
The town itself seemed to shine against a backdrop of green. The new lumber used for all the false-fronted buildings along the main street, helped them stand out.
More construction was happening in the back blocks and a train loaded with freight had pulled into the siding and was being unloaded.
There were no cattle yet, but the abundance of people was evident.
Things were indeed moving fast. All indications were that whoever had set this all up, was expecting Texas herds to come. French wasn’t going to like this at all.
Brit eased his buckskin to a halt outside of one of the four saloons in town. It was called simply, The Watering Hole.
The paint on its large sign stood out in bright, bold letters. The front windows were large and when Brit pushed in through the batwing doors, he found them to be stiff.
Inside were maybe ten people. Three of those were working girls and one was the barkeep. Once the herds arrived, it would be a different story.
All the furniture was new, unmarked. The mirror behind the bar was clean and most of the bottles on the shelves were full. To the right side of the room was a long staircase that climbed to the second floor where the rooms were. From the ceiling hung a chandelier and on the papered walls were wall lamps. Come the end of the droving season, it would look different.
Brit bellied up to a long, hardwood bar. He looked sideways at the barkeep who remained where he was, polishing an already clean glass.
‘Whiskey,’ said the gunman.
The middle-aged barkeep looked up, gave him a disinterested glance, and went back to the glass.
Brit growled, ‘I know you ain’t deaf, bar slop. I asked you for a drink. Move your ass.’
Still nothing.
The six-gun from Brit’s holster leaped into his hand. The weapon roared, and the sound slammed against the walls. The glass in the barkeep's hand shattered and small, sharp splinters scythed through the air.
In shock, the barkeep looked at his empty, bleeding hand. His mouth agape, he looked up at Brit and numbly asked, ‘What the hell did you do that for?’
The gunman ignored the question. ‘Have I got your attention now?’
Still in shock, the barkeep just stared at him.
Brit noticed movement behind him in the mirror and whirled, bringing up his six-gun once more and fired.
The slug hit the man in the chest high up and to the left. He was punched back violently, a large red blotch on his shirt front. As he flailed and went down, a chair and table crashed over. He fell between them and remained unmoving, an unfired Colt Army beside him.
Brit moved his own weapon back and forth, waiting for his next target to present itself.
The batwings suddenly flew open and a tall, well-dressed man with black hair, lumbered in. He looked about the room. He could see startled saloon customers staring at the killer at the bar. The percentage girls huddled together, visibly upset. His gaze stopped on the dead man on the plank floor.
‘What the hell happened here?’ he snarled. His gaze came up to rest on Brit. ‘Who are you?’
Brit’s face was like granite. ‘Someone you don’t want to mess with.’
‘I’ll decide that. Speak or get out.’
‘Who are you?’ Brit asked evenly.
‘The name’s Clayton. I started this town.’
The gunman sneered. ‘Well now, isn’t that something.’
Clayton gave him a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That we should meet this way. Me and the man who’s trying to undercut business from my boss.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Sure you do. You started this town so that the herd owners from Texas would drive their cows here instead of Cheyenne. You figure on cornering most of the market for yourselves. I’m guessing that there’s herds coming, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. Am I right?’
Clayton’s answer was a tentative, ‘Maybe.’
Brit nodded. ‘Well then, it seems we have ourselves a small problem.’
All too aware that the gunman still held his weapon in his right fist, Clayton asked, ‘What problem would you be referring to?’
‘The town. You see, this town is going to cost my boss a lot of money. And when he loses money, he gets mad. When he gets mad he takes it out on me, then I get mad.’
‘I—I’m sorry to hear that. But what can I do about that?’
‘Pack your town up and move on.’
Clayton half chuckled at the ridiculous suggestion. Then he realized that Brit wasn’t a man to joke. ‘You can’t be serious? There’s no way that is going to happen.’
Brit shook his head. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.’
Clayton licked his lips, looked down at the gun in the killer’s hand and then back up. ‘Here’s something else you probably don’t want to hear. Be gone from here by sundown or you’ll be moved on.’
A cold smile split Brit’s lips and Clayton thought he was about to die. Instead, the gunman dropped the six-gun into his holster and walked toward the saloon batwings.
A sigh of relief escaped Clayton’s lips.
‘Hey!’
He turned and saw Brit standing just inside the batwings.
‘Goodbye!’ he shouted and drew his six-gun.
Once again, The Watering Hole was filled with the sound of a booming gunshot. The bullet slammed into Clayton and drove him back against the bar. He seemed to hang there for a moment before he slid to the floor in a motionless heap.
Brit replaced the Colt Navy in its cross-draw holster, turned, and walked outside. A high-pitched cackle followed him.