CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
People gathered to watch as the sheriff and his unofficial deputies walked the four strangers from the mercantile to the jail.
When they entered what appeared to be a customary Old West jail, the lawman tossed their guns on top of his desk. The other men formed a semicircle around the four men, guns in hand.
“Gents, my name’s Sheriff Roy Gates. I’ll need your names.”
Jake, Dundee, Curly, and Taco said their names.
“Mr. Motley,” Gates asked, “is that Big Jake Motley, from down Brownsville way?”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of me.”
“I’ve heard enough to know that you’re not a bank robber,” Gates said. “At least, up to now.”
“What makes you think we’re here to rob your bank?” Jake asked. “All we did was stop in your mercantile.”
“To buy dynamite,” Gates said.
“Yeah, your clerk said somethin’ about your bank vault gettin’ dynamited,” Jake said. “That still doesn’t explain why you’d suspect us.”
“I don’t suspect you,” Gates said. “I just want to talk to you. I’ve been the sheriff here longer than most men hold this job. Mr. Motley, you’re my age, you know men like us have to be careful.”
“Sheriff,” Jake said, “you’re keepin’ us from doin’ somethin’ very important. Please, go ahead and ask your questions so we can buy our dynamite and leave.”
“You still intend to buy dynamite?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
Jake had lied to the clerk about the reason, but he thought the truth would probably work better with somebody like Sheriff Gates.
“We’re not going to use the dynamite to rob a bank, Sheriff,” Jake said. “We’re gonna use it to kill a man.”
Gates looked surprised.
“You’re admittin’ to me that you intend to murder a man?” he asked.
“It ain’t murder,” Jake said, “it’s revenge.”
“Against who?”
“A man who killed my best friend.”
“I think you better explain.”
“Can we sit?” Jake asked.
“Get these men some chairs,” Gates said.
One of the men actually had to leave the office and come back with two chairs so all four of them could sit.
“I sold my ranch and drove my last herd to Dodge City,” Jake said.
“A trail drive? When?”
“We started out almost three months ago,” Jake said. “Along the way we went up against a man named Seaforth Bailey who had appointed himself a major.”
“Seaforth’s Raiders?”
“He tried to take our herd, and we fought him off,” Jake said. “But after, from a distance, he killed my best friend, a man I rode with for over forty years. Like you said, we’re the same age, Sheriff. You know what that kind of friendship means.”
“I do.”
“Well, now I’ve come back for my revenge, only Seaforth has even more raiders than he had when we fought him off before.”
“So you’re figurin’ to even up the odds with dynamite?”
“That’s it.”
Gates looked at his unofficial deputies and said, “Put your guns up, boys, and go back to your jobs.”
“You sure, Sheriff?” one of them asked.
“I’m sure,” Gates said. “These men aren’t here to rob the bank.”
The men lowered their guns and filed out of the office.
“Maybe you want your men to wait outside for a short time,” the sheriff said to Jake.
“It’s okay,” Jake told the others. “It looks like I’ll be right out.”
Taco, Dundee, and Curly all stood and followed the deputies out of the office.
“Okay, so you’re not gonna rob our bank,” the lawman said, “but you’re tellin’ me that you’re gonna kill a man.”
“Out of your jurisdiction,” Jake pointed out.
“That may be, but you’re still admittin’ that you’re gonna break the law,” Gates said. “I might have to notify the sheriff in Three Rivers.”
“Well, that would be tough, since there is no sheriff in Three Rivers.”
“I see. Then I might have to contact the sheriff wherever you do it.”
“I don’t know where I’m gonna do it,” Jake said. “Look, Sheriff, I’m not gonna ambush him, or shoot him in the back. He’ll see it comin’ and he’ll have just as good a chance of killin’ me.”
“So, a fair fight, then?”
“Well, not a dime novel shoot-out in the street,” Jake said, “but pretty fair, yeah. I’m only gonna use the dynamite to keep his raiders at bay, if we can.”
“So you’re not plannin’ on blowin’ up Three Rivers.”
“The citizens there haven’t done nothin’ to me,” Jake said. “Why would I wanna blow up their town?”
Gates stood up.
“I’ll walk back to the mercantile with you so you can get your dynamite.”
They all walked back to the mercantile with the lawman while townspeople watched curiously. Jake and Dundee went inside with the sheriff, who told the clerk, “Sell ’em what they want.”
“If you say so, Sheriff.”
Gates looked at Jake.
“I don’t know if you were plannin’ on stoppin’ in one of our saloons, but I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“That’s fine,” Jake said. “Since we’ll be transportin’ dynamite I don’t want any of us to be drinkin’.”
“I don’t blame you.”
When they had the dynamite, Dundee carried it outside, put it in his two saddlebags, then gave the blasting caps to Curly and the fuses to Jake.
“We keep all that apart and we won’t have any trouble,” he said.
“Then let’s get movin’,” Jake said. He turned to the lawman. “Thanks for the hospitality.”
“You’re bein’ sarcastic,” Gates said, “but I coulda tossed you all in jail for a while.”
Jake could have argued about that, but decided to just get himself and the boys out of Pleasanton without any more trouble.
As he mounted up Sheriff Gates said, “I’m gonna wish you luck, Big Jake. I hope it all works out for you.”
“Thanks for that, Sheriff.”
The other three had already started to ride out, so Jake urged his sorrel to follow.
Because they had been delayed in Pleasanton, they camped that night some distance away from Three Rivers. It was just as well, since Jake still had to sit and ponder how he wanted to use the dynamite.
Their camp was not as hidden from view as it had been days earlier, but they still built a small fire after dark, just large enough to make coffee and some beans.
“Dynamite always makes me nervous,” Curly commented, looking over to where the saddlebags had been set down on the ground, away from the fire.
“Like I said,” Dundee relied, “if we just keep the dynamite away from the blasting caps and fuses, there shouldn’t be any problems.”
“I’m just stayin’ away from everythin’,” Curly said. “I’ve seen you use too much dynamite.”
“That was a onetime thing!” Dundee said.
“What happened?” Taco asked.
“Never mind,” Dundee said. “It ain’t even worth talkin’ about.”
“I don’t think we want any huge explosions,” Jake commented.
“Jake, we can use the sticks one at a time. One stick’ll take care of several men.”
“Do we have to bury the sticks, or can you throw them?” Jake asked.
“Either way,” Dundee said, “but if we bury them somebody would still have to light the fuses.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I think we have to get Seaforth and his raiders to charge us, and then we start tossing the dynamite in among them. By the time they realize what’s goin’ on, most of them will be on the ground.”
“And who’s gonna be throwin’ dynamite?” Curly asked.
Dundee looked at his friend.
“Two of us,” Dundee said. “You and me.”
“Whoa,” Curly said, “not me.”
“I will do it,” Taco said.
“Okay,” Dundee said, “you and me, Taco. I’ll show you how to do it.”
The two men stood up, walked away from the fire to the saddlebags.
“Are we far enough away from them?” Curly asked. “In case somethin’ goes off?”
“Dundee’s your partner,” Jake said. “Don’t you think he knows what he’s doin’?”
“Usually.”
“Except for that one time?” Jake asked.
“We had a job blastin’ some boulders from a field,” Curly said. “But one of them was close to the house. Dundee just used too much dynamite and . . . boom, no more house.”
“Okay, well,” Jake said, “that was a while ago, right? And only one time?”
“Yeah, it was a while ago,” Curly said, “but it only takes one time, don’t it?”