IT WAS A HARSH, baked part of Texas. A landscape of jagged, rocky peaks surrounded by great expanses of rugged desert with creosote, yucca, mesquite, and other hardy plants adapted to the conditions.
It was also a landscape of hidden dangers. Mexican bandits, outlaws, and Mescalero Apaches roamed freely, killing and looting.
Savage was two weeks out of Buckley and half a day from Silver Ridge when he came across an upturned stage.
It was on its side just off the trail. The first sign of something wrong was the circling buzzards high in the sky, gradually getting lower in lazy spirals.
Savage stopped the bay in the center of the trail and leaned down to take the Winchester from its scabbard. He levered a round into the breech automatically while alert eyes scanned the immediate area for any sign of trouble.
Beneath him, the horse shifted nervously, sensing the tension in its rider’s body.
Earlier in the day, Savage had seen a smudge of dust to the west. A number of years before the war, even before he’d settled down, he’d worked with a freight company who’d shipped through this part of Texas. The outfit had tangled with Apaches on more than one occasion so he knew that dust rising from that direction could mean but one thing, trouble.
He pulled off the trail and into a deep dry wash. After he dismounted, he took the Winchester and crawled back up the embankment to wait in the baking sun. Even the lizards were hiding from it.
Almost thirty minutes later, a handful of Mescalero Apache appeared and started riding parallel with the trail. His caution had paid off.
He waited another half hour to make sure they were gone and led the horse back up onto the trail. The problem now was that they were headed in the same direction.
When he came across the ghastly scene, the six-up stage team was all down but still in harness. The stage was tipped on its side and the driver and guard lay in the middle of the road. Both had been shot full of arrows and scalped.
Savage climbed down from the bay and walked over to the stage. Above the door was a hand-painted sign which read: Silver Ridge Stage Lines.
He looked inside and saw that the passengers were dead. Both were male and had been well armed.
Savage stepped back from the coach and examined the ground around him and it struck him that things seemed to be too clean. Someone had taken the time to erase all traces of disturbance.
Something seemed not right. If it were Mescaleros, why kill all of the horses? Why leave guns and ammunition on the men in the coach? And why …? he stopped. There in the dust as clear as day, was a heeled boot print.
Off to his left, a quail took flight, flapping furiously as it launched itself from a clump of creosote.
Savage froze. Something had startled it and his immediate conclusion was the Mescaleros he’d seen earlier. His first thought was for his horse and then the Winchester. Although he had the Remington on his hip, it only carried six shots. Trying to reload while he had Apaches trying to lift his hair could prove fatal. The Winchester, on the other hand, had fifteen shots and would be ideal.
Only ten yards stood between him and the bay. He turned and walked slowly towards it. A flutter of movement to his right his eye.
Without hesitation, he dived and rolled. An arrow whistled past overhead and flew harmlessly into the surrounding desert.
Savage completed the roll by coming up on one knee as another arrow stuck into the earth in front of him. The Remington came out in a fluid draw as he sought a target.
From the brush in front of him emerged an Apache, dressed in a loin cloth, shirt, and knee-high moccasins. He was armed with a bow and paused to draw the string back.
Savage snapped a shot off in his direction and the Indian cried out with pain. He dropped the bow and clutched at his stomach. Another .44 slug finished him off.
Turning, Savage lunged towards the mare in a desperate play to get the Winchester. A gunshot sounded and he felt the round pass close. Damn it, he cursed to himself. At least one of them had a gun of some description.
His hand slapped the stock of the Winchester and Savage ripped it from the saddle scabbard. He whirled and saw that two more Apaches had emerged from the desert landscape. One of them was the warrior with the gun, a rifle. These were closer this time and he could see their paint-daubed faces.
Hurriedly, Savage jacked a round into the Winchester’s breech. He threw it to his shoulder and fired at the Apache with the gun but wasn’t quick enough to stop him firing.
The slug from the Mescalero’s rifle missed, though not by much. There was a hollow thunk behind him and the mare let out a high-pitched shriek of pain. The slug Savage fired, however, didn’t miss and the Apache was flung back by the .44 caliber slug. He flopped like a rag doll into the dry desert sand and didn’t move.
Shifting his aim, Savage worked the lever and fired once more. Again he was too late and the arrow loosed by the Mescalero scored a bloody furrow along his left rib cage. It made him flinch and the shot that he fired flew wide.
Working the lever again, Savage lined the foresight upon the Indian’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The kick from the Winchester drove back against his shoulder and through the gun smoke that partly obscured his vision, he saw the Apache fall.
Three down, and by Savage’s calculations, there should be two more. With the Winchester still tucked against his shoulder he looked for the others but saw no one. Then he heard the drum of hoofbeats that faded in the distance. They had left.
Savage remembered the bay and spun about to see the mare on the ground. He hurried to her and knelt by her side and examined her wound. Her breathing was labored and she had a rattle deep within. The stray bullet had entered just behind her fore-shoulder on the right side. There was nothing more to be done so he got to his feet and placed the muzzle of the Winchester an inch from her forehead and squeezed the trigger As the adrenaline started to wear off, Savage suddenly became aware of the burning sensation on his left side. He looked down and saw the bloody tear in his shirt.
Now he was afoot in the desert. Unless …
He walked over to the brush where the Apaches had come from, checking their bodies as he went just to make sure.
Savage walked through the mesquite about twenty yards then it opened out into a small clearing. There, hobbled together, were three horses. In their rush to get away, the remaining Mescaleros had left them behind.
Two were wiry Indian ponies and the other was a sorrel. He chose the latter because it was most likely the one to be saddle-broke then set the others free.
After a brief struggle, Savage managed to retrieve his saddle from the bay and onto the sorrel along with the rest of his gear. Once he was finished, he climbed up onto the horse. At first, it skittered sideways at the unfamiliar rider but once he was aboard, the animal was fine.
He turned the horse towards Silver Ridge and put it into a loping canter. With any luck, he’d reach town before the sun dropped below the horizon.
~*~
The main street of Silver Ridge showed two typical architectural styles. The timber structures had large false-fronts that hid buildings of varying sizes.
In contrast to these were the adobe buildings were built with a mixture of mud and straw or even manure made into bricks, then were slow dried in the shade to reduce cracking.
Three of the timber buildings were saloons. Each establishment had its name on a large hand-painted sign above their second-floor windows. The Cactus Rose, the Mine King, and the Lucky Strike.
People stopped on boardwalks to stare curiously at the stranger dressed in the cavalry pants and buckskin jacket, then went on about their business doing last minute jobs before the sun went down.
Silver Ridge stood at the foot of the Chisos Mountains and had come about from a silver strike six years before. It was surrounded by miles and miles of desert country and the town’s main water source was a spring that rose near the edge of town.
The first stop on Savage’s agenda was to the local sheriff. He needed to inform the law about the stage he’d found earlier in the afternoon and while he was there, he would ask about Brooks. After that, he would see to the sorrel.
The last red rays of sunlight were stretched out across the sky when Savage found what he was searching for.
The Silver Ridge law office was a plain timber building with a veranda out front. It was double story with the jail cells upstairs. It also had a large sign painted in bold red letters that said, Sheriff’s Office.
Savage looped the reins over the hitching rail out front and wearily climbed the steps. He crossed the boardwalk and walked in through the door.
“Can I help you stranger?” a tall man with red hair asked.
Savage nodded. “You can if you’re the sheriff.”
“Tip Morton,” he greeted. “And you are …?”
“Jeff Savage,” Savage offered as he looked around the jail. It was a sparsely furnished space with two chairs, a scarred desk, a gun rack on the wall and a cabinet for papers. In the corner was a pot-bellied stove and the room was lit by a single lamp.
But it was the stove that interested Savage the most. Or the smell of freshly brewed coffee that emanated from the battered pot on top.
“What can I do for you, Savage?”
“I could use a coffee if you don’t mind.”
Morton stared blankly at him for a moment then nodded.
Alright,” Morton said and he found a cup and tossed it to Savage. “Help yourself and while you’re at it start talkin’.”
As he poured the steaming liquid into the cup, Savage said, “About half a day out I came across an upturned coach. Sign on it said it was a Silver Ridge stage.”
“Damn it,” Morton cursed. “The bastards have done it again. It was Apaches wasn’t it?”
“It looked that way,” Savage allowed. “But …”
“Hang on a moment,” Morton said stopping him. Then he called out, “Shelby? Get in here.”
A young man entered from a back room. He was medium size and build and had a badge pinned to his vest.
“What’s up, Tip?”
“Go and get Baxter and Wheeler,” Morton ordered. “They’ll be at the Cactus Rose. Tell ’em that it is to do with the stage.”
“Again?” asked Shelby raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes, again. Now get goin’.”
The young deputy rushed out the door and was gone.
Morton turned his attention back to Savage and explained, “Morg Baxter owns the stage lines and Hap Wheeler bosses the Silver Bullet mine. If you’re goin’ to tell me what you found then you may as well tell them at the same time. Saves you repeatin’ yourself.”
“Fair enough,” Savage agreed. “While we’re waitin’ for ’em maybe you can tell me somethin’?”
“If I can.”
“Duane Brooks, do you know him?”
“Yeah,” Morton allowed. “I know him. Wild one like his brother. Haven’t seen him since he rode out to fight in the war, though. Why?”
“I heard tell he was comin’ back here and I thought I might look him up,” Savage lied and took a sip of his coffee.
Morton looked at Savage suspiciously.
“What about his brother, might he know?”
“If you can find him,” Morton snorted. “Though if he shows his face around here I’ll lock him up.”
“Why?”
Morton was about to explain more when Shelby returned with Baxter and Wheeler.
“Damn it to hell, Tip,” the middle-aged Wheeler fumed. “Shelby says it’s happened again. Is it true?”
“It appears so,” Morton confirmed. “Savage here found the stage.”
“Well man, out with it,” the solidly built Baxter snapped. “Tell us what you found.”
“Before you start, there is one thing you should know, Savage,” Morton interrupted. “There was ten thousand in silver on that coach.”
That would explain their behavior, Savage thought to himself.
Savage told the men about the events of the day including the gunfight with the Mescaleros.
“Good show,” Wheeler sneered. “That’ll teach the bastards to steal the company silver. Was there any sign of it?”
Savage shook his head. “Nope. And I don’t think it was Mescaleros who stole the silver and killed those men either.”
As Savage drank the last of his coffee all eyes turned in his direction questioningly.
“But you just told us that the men were scalped, shot full of arrows, and to top it off they damn well attacked you where it happened.” Baxter reminded him furiously.
“That’s right,” Savage acknowledged.
“Well, hell,” Wheeler snapped. “I don’t know about you Savage, but from where I’m standin’, that is a mighty strong case. Don’t know how you drew your conclusion.”
“You’d better explain yourself, Savage,” Morton urged him. “What makes you so sure it weren’t Mescaleros?”
“First off, tell me about the other robbery.”
“It was pretty much the same as the one you’ve just told us about,” Morton elaborated. “Horses shot, men scalped and shot full of arrows.”
“Anything else to suggest Apaches done it? Any tracks?”
“What more do you want?” Baxter snorted derisively.
Savage ignored him and Morton said, “There were no tracks at all. But that’s somethin’ the Apaches would do, blot out their tracks. They wouldn’t want us followin’ them back to their camp.”
“That’s true,” Savage agreed. “But before the war, I worked with a freight outfit that used to run through the Big Bend country and we tangled with the Apaches some. And …”
“And what?” Wheeler interrupted sarcastically. “Get to the point.”
“And there are four things I learned about them.”
“Like what?” Wheeler snapped impatiently.
“One is that Apache just don’t shoot horses for somethin’ to do. They just take ’em. Yeah, they might shoot one to stop the coach but not all of them,” Savage pointed out. “Two is, why didn’t they take the guns and ammunition? The ones that attacked me had one rifle between them. If it was them then they sure as hell needed them. The third is why would they take the silver? They don’t need it.”
“And the fourth?” Baxter asked.
“Is when did Mescaleros start wearin’ heeled boots?”