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.

While Bill washed and shaved, Cholla kept nuzzling his shoulders and nipping his ears, despite Bill’s threats to turn him into dog food. When Bill bent over the trough to rinse the shaving lather from his face, Cholla clamped his teeth onto Bill’s belt, lifted him into the air, and dumped him unceremoniously into the trough. Bill emerged, spluttering, and muttering various uncomplimentary oaths about Cholla’s ancestry. He turned at the sound of raucous laughter.

“Hey, Bill, why the devil are you takin’ a bath? It ain’t anywhere near Saturday,” Jed Stevens called. Like Bill, Stevens, head wrangler for the Lazy H Ranch, had a special affinity for horses. He was the only person in Wolf Creek who Bill would call a close friend.

“Wasn’t my idea, it was Cholla’s,” Bill answered. “I think he’s jealous ’cause I had supper with Ann Haselton last night.”

“Well, you’re the one who turned that animal into a biscuit-eater,” Jed replied. “You spoil that horse.”

“I know, but he deserves it,” Bill replied. “I’d trust him over most of the people I’ve known, no question. Besides, you spoil your Rojo every bit as much.”

“Boy howdy, I can’t argue with you there, on either point,” Jed agreed. “Never mind your horse, though. Half the town’s buzzin’ about you bein’ seen having supper with the schoolteacher. So, tell me about last night.”

“We had supper, that’s all. Ann’s a real—”

Bill stopped short, as the sound of gunshots and pounding hooves shattered the morning.

“What the hell?” Jed exclaimed. He pulled his Navy Colt from its holster. “Better see what that’s all about.”

He and Bill headed for North Street on the run.

****

The jangle of a bell from the outer waiting room stopped Logan from lighting his pipe, and with a shrug of resignation, he stood and crossed the room. A bit of work was needed to help him stave off the tiredness after his night’s work and the melancholic mood that was never too far away when he thought of his Helen.

He opened the door to find himself confronting the intimidating, unsmiling figure of Charley Blackfeather. The scout was taller than Logan by a couple of inches and weighed about two hundred pounds of almost pure muscle. Charley’s father had been a runaway slave, and his mother was a Seminole. He had the proud, handsome features of both races. His raven black hair hung down his back in a single long braid. Eschewing a shirt, he was dressed in a blue cavalry slouch cap adorned with a single crow feather, a black vest and canvas pants. His feet were encased in high-topped beaded moccasins, and about his waist was a veritable armory of weaponry. He carried an Army Colt, a Bowie knife, and a steel tomahawk that Logan had once seen him hurl to decapitate a rat at thirty paces.

“For you,” he said, holding out a small sack that seemed to be moving, as if it contained something alive. “Green frogs. They’re good for pounding into hog fat with some of the herbs I brought last time. They’ll cure any ulcer.”

Logan took the bag from the Indian scout and opened it. A small green frog instantly leaped out, but Charley Blackfeather caught it in mid-air and deposited it back in the bag.

“Thanks, Charley,” Logan said, tying the bag and pointing to his consulting room. “Come and have a coffee.”

“No,” Charley returned taciturnly. “I have business with Casto Haston at the tannery.” He pointed through the window to his horse which was hitched outside, and at the load of hides strapped to the back of his saddle alongside his bow and the scabbard containing his ’66 Winchester Yellowboy.

“You just make some of that green frog ointment. You’ll find it’s much better than anything else you got. It’s an old Seminole remedy that my mama used on me many a time. It works on gunshot wounds, too.”

Logan took a pragmatic approach to medicine and was willing to try out all manner of the Indian remedies that Charley Blackfeather supplied him with. He was not too sure about using green frogs, though.

Just then, Ann Haselton passed the window with the four Li boys following her in a line, each carrying a basket. Logan guessed that they were now on their way to the newspaper office. Little Chang was bringing up the rear, a broad grin on his face. They all waved as they passed. Logan was sure that Li Chang would have been delighted to see the bagful of green frogs, but probably less enamored at the fate that Charley Blackfeather proposed for them.

Logan and Charley chatted for a few minutes more, and then Charley turned and reached for the doorknob. He stopped and stood still, sniffing the air.

“Something is burning!” he said.

Logan smelled it too.

Then there was the sound of a gun. It was followed by another from somewhere further off. Almost immediately, there was the cadence of galloping hooves.

The sudden sound of a child’s scream sent a shiver down Logan’s spine. He immediately knew who it was, for he had heard the sound not long before.

Charley Blackfeather pulled the door open and he and Logan rushed out. They saw a burning wagon belching thick black smoke skewed across halfway up the street. A dead mule lay before it.

“What in blazes?” Logan began.

Then a gun fired, and a bullet sent them dashing back into the office. From all over town came startled voices and cries. The noise of horses’ hooves pounding could be heard and then the noise of more gunfire. Lots of it.

“It’s a raid!” shouted Logan, rushing into his consulting room and grabbing his bag.

Charley stopped him as he tried to go back into the waiting room.

“If there is shooting, there will be wounded. I’ll be needed.”

“You won’t be needed dead, doctor. Go the back way.”

Together they left Logan’s place via a back window, and gingerly skirted round the back of the office.

“You there, lay down that gun!” they heard a voice cry from Second Street. “I’m Deputy Marshal Garvey and I order you—”

There was a gunshot, then a scream.

As they hurried round the side of the office, they saw Fred Garvey’s body lying in the dirt, blood gushing from a chest wound.

“You mangy dog!” cried Marshal Sam Gardner, running toward the blazing wagon, firing both guns through the smoke.

Another shot rang out and the marshal was hit. Blood spurted from his left leg, and he collapsed on his side. More bullets dug up clouds of earth around him, and he crawled sidewinder fashion, dragging his shot leg, to the cover of a horse trough.

“You got a gun, Munro?” Charley Blackfeather asked.

Logan opened his bag and drew out his Beaumont-Adams revolver. “I carried this through three wars. It is a fine weapon.” He hefted it in his firm surgeon’s hand. “And I can use it.”

Charley gave the curtest of acknowledgments. “We need to get past this gunman. If you pin him down, I’ll see if I can get around in back of him.”

Logan obliged. Intermittently, he peered round the corner of the office and discharged a shot. With each one, a returned shot gouged out part of the wall. Whoever was firing from the other side of the grisly barricade knew how to shoot.

Suddenly, there was a dull thud and a harrowing scream that went on and on, as if someone was in mortal agony. Then, abruptly, the noise stopped.

“Logan!” Charley Blackfeather called.

Logan peered round the corner, and through the smoke, saw Charley Blackfeather gesturing to him. In one hand he held his metal tomahawk and in the other, his big Bowie knife. Both were dripping with blood.

“Maybe you should take care of the marshal,” he shouted. And without another word, he turned and disappeared into the smoke.

****

Masked, armed men had galloped into Wolf Creek and seemed to be everywhere on both North and Lincoln Streets. They had pinned the town down, having shot mules and set fire to wagons that blocked off both Fourth and Second Streets. Already, a pall of acrid smoke had drifted down the streets, adding to the confusion.

As the gang rode in, they had split into smaller groups, and while some had dismounted and systematically pillaged businesses and shops, others had either remained on horseback and raced back and forth between the connecting streets or dismounted and taken up positions where they could cut off any resistance.

The raid was carried out with military precision, the effect being much as Danby’s crew would have wished. Most of the townspeople were panicked.

Two of the gunmen rode up the streets shooting at close range all the horses that were tied to the various hitching rails. The horses, sensing their danger, were panicking as well, with much snorting, squealing and screaming.

“You damned murdering dogs!” cried Slim Tabner, one of the tannery workers, running down Lincoln Street with an old Dragoon revolver. He stopped as soon as he came within range of one of the mounted men, took aim and fired. He hit the outlaw in the chest, and he was thrown sideward, landing in the dust in front of Wright’s Bakery. Immediately, one of the dismounted gunmen fired back, the bullet hitting Slim in the head and splattering blood and brain matter on the ground behind him.

At the other end of the town, Jim Danby, Wes Hammond and their men had converged on the Wolf Creek Savings and Loan. Melvin Lohorn, the owner, had been startled by all the noise and the sudden appearance of five armed men who had kicked and barged their way in and immediately shot down Hank Jones and Jeremiah Barnes, the two tellers on duty. Three of the men had then forced staff and customers onto the floor while the leader had made Melvin open the safe, himself. The other kept a watch at the door.

Once they had loaded up their saddlebags, for good measure they knocked out Allen Cook, the accountant, and Melvin Lohorn with the butts of their weapons. Then they departed, firing a few shots into the walls above the heads of the prostrate customers.

“Anyone who makes any move to come after us will get to lie down permanently!” Danby growled.

****

At the first sound of gunshots, Bill Torrance and his friend Jed Stevens had left the livery and run to North Street. The sight of a small army galloping along North Street toward them, and the other riders heading off down Fifth Street, left them in no doubt as to what was happening. It was a raid on the town, but most likely the main aim was to hit the bank.

“Holy smoke!” exclaimed Jed, clenching his Navy Colt. “Let’s hope Marshal Gardner and Sheriff Satterlee and their deputies are close by. I’m going to see what’s happening.”

“They’re shooting up the whole place,” gasped Bill. “I’m going to make sure Ann and the school kids all stay off the street.”

“You watch yourself, buddy,” Jed said. “Everybody knows you never carry a gun, but these yahoos might not care.”

As Jed ran down one alley, Bill turned and darted down another, then dashed across North Street into the school.

Marcus Sublette, the headmaster, was looking out the window when Bill rushed in. He had already shepherded the children to the other end of the classroom and forbidden them to allow their curiosity to get the better of them.

“Where’s Miss Haselton?” Bill asked in surprise.

“She—she hasn’t come in yet. She was running some errands with the Li Children first. It’s for the—”

Full of fear for Ann, Bill dashed out and almost ran into Derrick McCain, who was running up an alley toward North Street.

“Have you seen Ann Haselton?” Bill asked, urgently.

“Yeah, I saw her duck into the Expositor office with those Chinese boys. She’s safe enough there.”

The two men had never gotten on, having different allegiances during the War, but Bill put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and heaved a sigh of relief. He was about to say something when the sound of repeated shots from the bank rang out. Then the door flew open and a handful of gunmen charged out, each carrying a heavy saddle-bag. The leader whistled, and a moment later, a mounted raider came around the corner trailing the reins of their horses. They threw their bags over their saddles, mounted and wheeled round in readiness to make their escape.

Then, Danby spied Bill and Derrick on the other side of the street. A hard light came into his eyes. “Hey, remember this son of a bitch?” he shouted to Wes Hammond. Danby laughed mirthlessly. “This is like old-home week! Bet I kill him first!”

And, almost simultaneously, they both raised their guns and fired.

Instinctively, Bill and Derrick dived for cover. Bill hit the ground and rolled over to find the protection of a shed. Derrick dived over a trough.

Both Danby and Hammond raised their guns again, moving in for the kill.

“Shoot the bastard!” Danby cried.

But a shot rang out from close by, and they both looked round to see its source. Bill saw Jed flatten himself against the side of a building, his smoking Navy Colt in his hand. It was enough to distract Danby and Hammond, and since they could not see where the shot had come from, they took off and their men followed.

“Remember to shoot any horses. Don’t want any of these Wolf Creekers following!” Danby cried.

Bill ran over to Jed. “My God! They’re shooting the horses. Cholla!”

“And my Rojo!”

Together they raced along Lincoln and rounded the corner to the livery.

The first of the raiders were racing along North Street as Bill and Jed approached the livery. Rojo, Jed’s beloved strawberry roan gelding, was tethered to the hitching rail in front just as Jed had left him, alongside a sorrel. Both horses were snorting and straining to get loose.

One of the five drew to a halt, pulled out his gun and shot the sorrel once in the head, and Rojo twice in the chest. The sorrel dropped dead instantly, but Rojo reeled, and then collapsed. He lay there, making a fearful noise, with his legs twitching.

“No!” cried Jed, rushing ahead. He raised his gun and fired at the raider, but missed.

The gunman made no such mistake. He shot Jed in the chest. Then, seeing Bill coming along behind him, he let off a shot at him.

Jed, feeling his life slipping away, ignored the gunman and staggered toward Rojo—who lay snorting and squealing, his eyes rolling and his great chest pumping blood out.

“Rojo,” Jed sobbed. “The bastard has done for us both.” And realizing that there was nothing he could do for his mount, his friend of so many years, he dropped to his knees and patted the horse’s neck. Rojo nickered at the feel of his owner’s hand.

“I can’t stand to see you suffer, Rojo,” he wheezed as he pressed a hand to the gushing wound on his chest. He raised the gun to Rojo’s head. “We’ll go together, buddy!”

He fired and shuddered as his horse convulsed, then lay still. Then, with his eyes full of tears, he slumped forward over Rojo and died.

The gunman laughed and then turned in the direction of the stable and the corral beyond, where Bill had left Cholla and all his other charges.

Bill seized the opportunity, his heart racing and his mind full of nothing except the desire for revenge. He ran, grabbed the gun from Jed’s dead hand, and shot the departing gunman in the back.

****

Ann and the Li children had taken refuge in the Expositor where the editor, David Appleford, and his printer, Piney Robbins, had done their best to keep the boys’ heads down.

At last, when the shooting and the screaming of the dying horses seemed to be over and the gang all seemed to have ridden off, Piney stood up, grabbed the old Baby Dragoon pocket revolver that he kept in his desk drawer, and opened the door into the street. The sight that greeted him made him feel sick. The street was still full of smoke and the smell of powder was everywhere. A couple of businesses had caught fire or been deliberately set alight. Through the haze, he saw the carcasses of about a dozen horses lying where they had been slain as they stood tied to hitching rails. Two human bodies lay at the far end of the street.

Then he heard the noise of hooves and saw two gunmen riding fast toward him. He took a step to the edge of the boardwalk and aimed his weapon.

The leading raider saw him and fired, his bullet going wide. Piney barely aimed, but luck was with him. The bullet caught the raider in the face and he tumbled backward overt his horse to land face up in an expanding pool of his own blood.

At that very moment, Li Chang’s mice escaped from his pockets and made a concerted bid for freedom through the open door. Despite the combined cries of David Appleford and Chang’s brothers, Chang chased after them, his mind numbed by the horror of all he had heard. All he wanted was to protect his precious mice. He dashed through the door into the street then stopped when he saw the bloody body of a horse lying right in front of him.

He did not see the frightened, riderless horse that had reared up as it lost its rider and then started into a gallop. It ran straight into Chang, its full weight trampling him into the ground, shattering his rib cage and instantly breaking his neck.

Ann Haselton had instinctively run out after him, then stopped and stared in horror at seeing him trampled to death. She ran to him as soon as she was able, not seeing the panicking final gunman who had started shooting at anything that moved. He shot her in the back. The bullet went straight through her heart and she fell over the dead, broken body of her charge, Li Chang.

****

Spike and Emory had both been working hammer and tong, without a word between them—which was normal—when they’d heard the sound of gunfire. Each glanced at the other, then Spike grabbed the Austrian .50 caliber he kept loaded and leaning on the ladder to the loft, and headed for the wagon doors which stood open. In seconds, he spun on his heel and yelled to his partner as he passed. “Town’s under attack—least there’s a hell of a gunfight going on. Grab the Spencer—I’ll take the side from above, you take the front.”

The north side of the blacksmith’s shop looked out toward Torrance’s Livery, the front toward the school. The shop was on the edge of town, not in its center, where the shots came from. It was Spike’s thought that raiders, if indeed this was a raid, would be looking for anything of value, and Torrance kept some fine stock at his place. Spike, however, was more worried about his own steel gray.

He couldn’t imagine them bothering the school. He was better armed than Em, and knew himself to be a better shot; after all, he’d been four years getting shot at by some of Mr. Lincoln’s finest, and other than a scar across his cheekbone—and that from a blade—and a limp from a cannon blast, he was not much the worse for the wear.

Even though a lot more lead could be thrown from the Spencer, the long rifled Austrian was a much more accurate weapon at a distance, and he would lay down only fifty yards from the livery. He could put one through a button on a man’s vest at that range. He’d once dropped a Yank sniper out of a hickory tree with the long Austrian, and then paced off the four hundred-and-thirty-yard shot.

As he’d suspected, and just as he got prone in the loft, two riders he didn’t recognize approached the livery. To his surprise, one of them drew and head-shot a horse tied at a rail across the road from the corrals—the animal collapsed like he’d dropped a hogshead barrel.

Spike had no idea who the men were, but it didn’t take more than that one gunshot to figure them up to no good—the question was, did they deserve killing? He snapped the gun to his shoulder, took a deep breath, squeezed, and shot the mount out from under the lead rider—who hit the ground on the run, caught the arm of the second, and swung up behind him. As Spike bit the end off another paper load, they disappeared behind the houses at a dead gallop.

His own horse, Hammer, a steel gray dappled gelding—cut proud enough that he still wanted to jump the fence when there was a mare on the wind—was in that livery, and he and Ham had been though a lot together. He wasn’t going to see him shot down by some lowlife. Reloading, he waited for another butt-wipe to ride on the livery, but none came.

Spike did have money in the bank, and that concerned him, for raiders would surely make it their first target. But from many battles under many different conditions, he knew one thing for sure. It was better to evaluate your position, and the odds, before you set off half-cocked—to coin a particularly appropriate phrase. That is, if you wanted to stay alive.

More shots rang out from different areas of town. Either there were plenty of raiders or some damn townsfolk-fools were shooting at each other. He and Em held their ground until the shooting quieted down. Then he dismounted the ladder, bade Em to take up his position in the loft, and retrieved his shirt. He buttoned up—he normally worked bare-chested in the shop’s heat—and strode out for the bank, only a block down Lincoln Street. Moving from cover to cover, keeping close to the walls of the buildings he passed, he kept a sharp eye for strangers or anyone armed.

As he neared the town’s most substantial masonry building, he realized the situation was damn bad. Not only were some men shot up, but a fine young lady, the schoolmarm, Miss Ann Haselton, and a child, one of the Li children—the youngest, Spike thought—lay dead.

His throat went dry, and heat coursed his backbone.

Spike had seen enough death to last him several lifetimes and had thought he was immune to it, but the woman and the child got to him. He stopped and stared at the weeping women who bent over the prostrate bodies, and old snakes started wiggling in his belly. He hated the thought of it, but innocent blood had been spilled—and that meant that blood had to be taken.

****

Bill stood, numbed, alongside the bodies of his friend, Jed, and Jed’s horse. The Danby gang had raced west along North Street and out of Wolf Creek, leaving death and destruction in its wake. Powdersmoke, mingled with the smoke from burning wagons and three blazing buildings, formed a haze which burned Bill’s eyes, already filled with tears over Jed’s loss. Those tears mercifully blurred his vision as he looked over the carnage on North Street. He could see the bodies of at least three people, plus those of nine or ten horses. Somewhere down the street a dog howled mournfully, undoubtedly at the loss of its master. The cries of the terrified, wounded, and dying sounded as if Satan and his legions were invading Wolf Creek. Of course Jim Danby, Wes Hammond, and Satan were one and the same to Bill.

“Cholla!”

Bill tucked Jed’s pistol into the waistband of his pants, then headed inside the stable, the dead outlaw’s horse following, eager to get away from the smoke and blood. Bill’s vow to never again use a gun had been shattered when he saw Jed murdered, and Rojo, along with who knew how many other helpless horses, gunned down where they stood. He had acted strictly on instinct when he grabbed the gun from Jed’s dying hand and shot his killer. The man had turned away from Jed and toward Bill’s stable, clearly intent on killing the horses inside, then burning down the barn. There was no way Bill could let that happen. A quick bullet in the back was the only solution.

The few horses remaining in the stalls were still nervous, pacing, snorting and nickering, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring at the scent of smoke.

“Cholla!” Bill called again. His paint came charging from his corral and up to Bill. He stopped and nuzzled Bill’s chest, then whickered. Bill wrapped his arms around the big gelding’s neck.

“Dunno why you didn’t follow me like you always do, boy, but thank God you didn’t,” Bill murmured. “Somethin’ must’ve told you to stay behind. Cowboy once told me there’s a saint—Francis if I recollect right—who protects animals. Guess he was watchin’ over you, ol’ pard. If he was, I’m sure grateful. Meantime, I’d better try and calm your friends down, then see where I can help out.”

Bill was more sickened by the killing of many of Wolf Creek’s horses than that of several of its residents. After all, his thinking went, men always had a way to fight back. Horses had no such choice. They were innocent victims of man’s greed and inhumanity.

Deputy Fred Garvey’s horse, a blocky grulla gelding, was in the stall closest to Bill. Bill stroked its nose to soothe the frightened animal.

“Easy, Dusty,” Bill whispered. “They’re gone. Nothin’ to worry about now.”

“Bill! You in there? Sheriff Satterlee’s lookin’ for you. Needs you pronto.”

Jimmy Spotted Owl was standing in the door of the stable. The young half-Cherokee cowboy’s face was streaked with gunpowder.

“Satterlee’s lookin’ for me? Why?” Bill questioned.

“’Cause he’s gettin’ up a posse, and needs horses. Gotta get on the trail of those renegades before they get too much of a jump. Sheriff wants to know how many horses you’ve got left.”

“Tell him half a dozen, not countin’ my Cholla,” Bill answered.

“You’d better tell him yourself,” Jimmy replied. “I’ve got to find Billy Below and Phil Salem. We’re gonna ride with Satterlee. Whole town’s riled up over all the killin’s, especially little Li Chang and the schoolteacher.”

Bill’s heart jumped into his throat.

“You mean they killed Marcus Sublette?”

“Not Marcus Sublette. Ann Haselton.”

Bill gasped. He felt like he’d just taken a Comanche lance right through his gut.

“Miss Haselton? Are you certain?”

“Saw her body myself. One of those bastards shot her right in the back.”

“Jimmy, tell G.W. I’ll be at his office in five minutes.”

“Bill, you don’t even wear a gun,” Jimmy started to protest, then stopped short, when he noticed the Colt snugged in the hostler’s waistband, and the grim look in Bill’s gray eyes.

“Don’t matter none,” Bill said.

“No, I reckon it don’t,” Jimmy agreed.

Once Jimmy left, Bill went to his room. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his chest and removed two boxes. The longer of these he set on top of the chest. He opened the other and removed a pair of well-oiled Navy Colts, along with a still-supple gunbelt and holsters. The bullet loops were filled with .44 Henry shells. Bill settled the belt on his hips, buckled it in place, then checked the action of the Colts before sliding them into their holsters.

Cholla was still waiting in the aisleway.

“C’mon, pardner, we’ve got a job to do, just like we‘ve done before,” Bill murmured to the paint.

****

Spike knew George Washington Satterlee, the sheriff, and he’d want to bring these scum suckin’ pigs back to town and make a big deal out of trying and hanging them. Hell, it would probably make Leslie’s Weekly and the lawman would be famous. But Spike had already made up his mind that these ol’ boys, who’d ridden down innocent women and children, would rot out there on the trail somewhere, and their trip to burn in hell would be as short as Spike could arrange. The crows would be pickin’ their eyes before many moons would pass, had he his way.

But as was his custom, he didn’t mouth it, just swore it to himself. A blood oath, for spilled blood.

He’d hoped he’d seen the end of it with the close of the war, but knew as long as there were men, there’d be killing.

He spat on the dirt street in disgust, and walked on.

And to add insult to that injury, when he got to the Wolf Creek Savings and Loan, he found his money was gone along with the rest of the town’s. He’d worked hard for four years putting money in that bank—as well as, thank God, some in a tobacco can buried in his flower and vegetable garden out back of the shop. Another reason to see the crows were well fed. More importantly, more lay dead. Two young tellers, Hank Jones and Jeremiah Barnes, lay dead on the floor, blood pooling around them. Hank was a married man with a new child. Spike’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t work up a spit. He clamped his jaw and walked out, heading for the sheriff’s office.

He waited quietly for the town fathers to get themselves pulled together, then when the first hint of posse was uttered, told them he’d return ready to ride. He went first to the livery where he kept his horse and a steamer trunk full of tack and other mementos from his time in the war, saddled Hammer, tied his two saddle holsters in place, a rifle boot on either side against the fenders. Then he went to the shop where he spent several minutes convincing Em that someone had to stay and take care of business. It wouldn’t do for both of them to get shot all to hell chasing a bunch of worthless owlhoots. He dug into the steamer trunk he kept in the loft, packed his haversack, rolled a blanket, made sure his cartridge and cap box was full, and headed back to the sheriff’s office to team up with the rest of the posse. Emory Charleston watched his partner ride out, and bowed his head and took a moment to ask the good Lord to watch over him.

He left Emory with the Spenser, but shoved the long Austrian in one saddle boot, a pair of Rigdon and Ainsley Confederate Navy Colt copies in the saddle holsters, and a double barrel twelve gauge in the other boot. His saddlebags would hold two dozen brass twelve gauge shells loaded with double-aught buckshot. The Austrian would do fine for long work, the revolvers for medium, and the scattergun for close, bloody work.

When he rode up, Spence Pennycuff was waiting on the boardwalk. He eyed Spike up and down. “Hell, Sweeney, you look like you’d be ready to take on half of General Lee’s army.”

Spike tapped the kepi on his head. “You got the wrong side there, Spence. If there was still takin’ on to do, I’d be taking on Cump Sherman’s boys. But that’s all behind us now. Let’s get to takin’ on these raiders.”

Spence smiled broadly. “That’s the most I think I hear’d you say since I known you, Spike.”

“Well, sir, these are trying times, and talking never got no row hoed or nag shoed.”

“C’mon in, Spike,” Spence said. “Sheriff’s got a few directions for us, I’m sure.”

****

The whole town was sickened at the sights and the news of the lives lost. No one’s worst nightmare could have been as bad as the sight of Wolf Creek once the smoke started to clear and men battled to douse the flames of the burning buildings. Logan Munro had ministered to the wounded, including Marshal Sam Gardner, and pronounced Li Chang and Ann Haselton dead.

He also pronounced death on Fred Garvey, Slim Tabner, Jeremiah Barnes, Hank Jones and Jed Stevens, along with four of the Danby gang.

Almost immediately, like human buzzards, Wil Marsh—with some help from Elijah Gravely the undertaker—started arranging the bodies of the gang into suitable poses. Then, with his tripod and camera, he methodically set about taking the photographs that he imagined he would be able to sell to the Eastern magazines.

Sheriff Satterlee took control and started to form a posse from the available able-bodied men and whoever had horses. He called an impromptu meeting in his office and prepared to swear in whoever could go.

“Doc Munro, you had best stay in town and look after the wounded,” he said, as he looked over the volunteers gathered in the office.

“The hell with that, Sheriff. I have done what needs to be done. Doctor Cantrell knows enough medicine, as a dentist, to look after the wounded here. And Martha Pomeroy is a capable nurse.” He started filling his meerschaum pipe. “I took the Hippocratic Oath and it is my duty to tend to the sick. I think I need to go, just in case any more of my friends here get hurt. And if we shoot any of that gang, it will be my solemn duty to treat and keep them alive.”

He lit his pipe and his eyes narrowed as he blew out a stream of smoke. “Until we can hang the bastards, that is!”