CHAPTER THREE

 

By the time Bill reached Sheriff Satterlee’s office, several men were already there, listening to Satterlee’s plans on how best to catch the outlaws who had ravaged Wolf Creek. Among them were Jimmy Spotted Owl, town blacksmith Spike Sweeney, and two of Satterlee’s deputies, Bill Zachary and Spence Pennycuff. Quint Croy, the town’s other deputy marshal, was also there. Charley Blackfeather leaned against the back wall of the office. Next to him, to Bill’s surprise, was Robert Gallagher, one of the clerks from Pratt’s General Store. Gallagher was a young man of about twenty-three, who wore spectacles and, when not working, could usually be found with his nose buried in a book. Gallagher was extremely thin, and the heavy Smith and Wesson American in the holster on his right hip threatened to pull his gunbelt over his hips and down to his ankles at any moment.

Satterlee nodded to Bill when he entered. If the sheriff was surprised at the two Colts hanging from Bill’s hips, and the third snuggled against his belly, he didn’t show it.

“Bill, glad you got here so fast. We don’t have time to mince words. Those sons of bitches did their best to make sure there wasn’t a horse left in Wolf Creek. Lucky me and my deputies were down in Dogleg, so they missed ours. Got a couple of others too, along with a dead outlaw’s mount, but we’re still short. How many you got in your barn?”

“Half-dozen, plus Cholla. One of those is Fred Garvey’s, so that one doesn’t count.”

“Fred won’t be needin’ his horse. He’s dead, so you can add his bronc and yours to the number.”

“There’s another dead outlaw’s horse in my barn,” Bill answered. “As for my horse, I’m ridin’ with you, Sheriff.”

“You sure about that, Bill?”

“Nothing could stop me.”

“Good. Head back to your barn and saddle up those horses. We’ll be along in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll need a horse, Sheriff,” Quint said. “Mine was one of those killed.”

“We’ll find you a mount,” Satterlee assured him.

“Sheriff, you’d best leave the town deputy here,” Charley Blackfeather spoke up. “In case you already forgot what I told you, that was the Danby outfit that hit us. Jim Danby likes to circle some of his men back after a raid, figurin’ while a posse is out chasin’ part of the gang the rest can finish what they started.”

“Charley’s right,” Satterlee said. “Quint, you stay in town.”

“But—” Croy started to object.

Satterlee cut him short. “No time for arguin’. Bill, get those horses ready.”

“Right, Sheriff.”

Bill opened the door and stepped outside, only to be greeted by a blood-curdling scream. Satterlee and the other possemen rushed out of the office.

“What the devil’s goin’ on?” Satterlee demanded.

Bill was standing stock-still. A plump, middle-aged matron blocked his way. Her dark eyes were wide with indignation, and her finger shook as she pointed at the hostler’s bare upper torso, which was smeared with Jed’s and Rojo’s blood. She jabbed her parasol into Bill’s chest.

“Sheriff, this man has no shirt on!” she exclaimed. “I demand you do something about it. It’s indecent. Arrest him at once!”

Bill hadn’t had the chance to pull his shirt on before the outlaws attacked. Now, in his haste to answer the sheriff’s summons, combined with the shock of Jed’s and Ann’s deaths, Bill hadn’t even realized he’d never fully redressed.

“Mrs. Pettigrew,” Satterlee said, exasperated. “After all this town has just been through, do you really think I’m concerned about whether or not a man has a shirt on? Why don’t you make yourself useful and try to help with the wounded, or else just go home?”

Edith Pettigrew was the widow of Seth Pettigrew, one of the founders of Wolf Creek, and considered herself, and her group of sewing circle ladies, the moral compass of the settlement. She was constantly badgering the marshal and sheriff about some perceived iniquity. The fact she was addicted to opium from Tsu Chiao’s Red Chamber did not seem, to her, the least bit hypocritical—somehow it seemed only to heighten her moral indignation. She never went to the Red Chamber herself, of course. People would talk. She usually sent Dickie Dildine or Rupe Tingley to fetch her “medicine”.

“George Washington Satterlee, I’ll have your badge,” she shrieked.

“Fine, Mrs. Pettigrew. You can have it once I’ve finished my business with the Danby gang. Now, just go home, or by God, I’ll have you hogtied and carried there.”“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Just try me,” Satterlee snapped. “Bill, get goin’.”

Mrs. Pettigrew scurried away. Satterlee sensed the shock in some of the posse members at his brusque treatment of a lady, even one as exasperating as her, and silently swore at himself. This kind of stress tended to bring out the rough edges of his past life, not a desirable trait in a public official—and not a side of himself that George Washington Satterlee wanted to show. But there was nothing to be done about it now, and no time to worry about it further. The Danby Gang had violated his town, and they were going to pay.

****

Twenty minutes later, fourteen men were assembled in front of Bill’s stable. Joining the ones from Satterlee’s office were three more cowboys, Billy Below, Joe Montgomery, and Phil Salem. Red Myers, one of the assistants from the tannery, was also present, along with Doctor Logan Munro, who carried his medical bag. Rounding out the posse was Derrick McCain, who nodded silent agreement as Montgomery loudly voiced his objections to some of the members.

“Sheriff, I thought I was joinin’ a posse, not a Sunday school picnic,” Montgomery complained. “We need the toughest hombres we can find to take on Jim Danby and his bunch, not a bunch of lily-livered, yella-bellied women.”

“Joe, where the hell do you think I’m gonna find more men?” Satterlee questioned. “Fred Garvey’s dead, Sam Gardner’s shot up bad, and I’ve got to leave some people behind in case Danby decides to come back and hit the town again. Spike, here, offered to stay back, but a lot of the folks in town don’t trust him. Besides, I need his gun.”

“Yeah, but Sheriff, look at what you’ve got. A half-breed Cherokee, who’d rather strum his guitar or play his harmonica than work; then there’s Gallagher, a four-eyed store clerk who probably can’t even see to aim a gun, let alone set a horse; and finally, Torrance, who no one ever saw with so much as a pea-shooter until this mornin’. Hell, none of ‘em will do us any good out there, ’specially the livery man.”

Satterlee gazed at Bill, who had thrown on his shirt, but had yet to button it. He took in the bullet scar on Bill’s chest, and the old saber slash across his belly, both still coated with Jed’s and Rojo’s blood. He also hadn’t failed to notice the Model 1866 Winchester Yellowboy repeater Bill slid into his saddle scabbard.

“Joe, I think Torrance might just surprise all of us. He’s ridin’.”

“Ridin’ what? He don’t even have a decent horse,” Montgomery objected. “That fancy calico pony of his’ll never keep up. Hell, it ain’t nothin’ but a spoiled pie-biter, everybody knows that. Horse like that is only fit for women or squaws.”

Bill had said nothing, until now. He stalked up to Joe, and sank his left fist deep into Montgomery’s belly. The young man doubled up, wrapped his arms around his middle, and collapsed to the dirt. He lay on his side, gasping for breath, eyes watering with pain.

“Montgomery, you can say whatever you’d like about me, but talk about my horse like that again and I’ll kill you where you stand,” Bill warned.

Whatever Joe intended to reply was cut off by Satterlee’s brusque order.

“That’s plenty out of both of you. We’ve got a big enough problem facin’ us as it is, without fightin’ amongst ourselves. Joe, soon as you get your air back, get on your horse and catch up to us. Bill, you hold your temper. Rest of you, get mounted. Every minute we stand around is another minute between us and the Danby bunch.”

****

Bill’s thoughts raced faster than the powerful horse galloping underneath him as the posse raced hell-bent for leather across the rolling Kansas plains. When he’d left Texas, he’d vowed to never again wear a badge or touch a weapon. Yet, despite that vow, here he was deputized, and in pursuit of one of the most vicious outlaw gangs plaguing the southern Plains.

As one of the considerable minority of Texans who opposed secession from the Union at the start of the War, Bill had refused to join the Confederate army. As far as he, and a lot of others, were concerned, the war had been started to support a bunch of wealthy plantation owners in the South and rich Yankees in the North. He’d never bought the argument advanced by many Southerners that the whole reason for secession was states’ rights. Bill’s opinion was that claim was so much horse manure. If the plantation owners hadn’t wanted to keep their free labor, the war would never have been fought.

However, while Bill held no truck with the Confederacy, he was still loyal to Texas. Once the Comanches realized much of the male population of the state had gone off to fight, they intensified their raiding, hoping to take back some of the land they’d lost. When volunteer companies of Texas Rangers were once again organized, Bill answered the call. Before long, he rose to the rank of sergeant.

By the time the war neared its end, the Rangers found themselves dealing with white renegades as much as Indians. Deserters from both armies, mainly the South, and outlaws in general flocked to Texas. The wide-open spaces and lack of law provided plenty of opportunity, and places to disappear. The people of Texas soon found out many of those white renegades were far more trouble than any Comanches.

It was during a confrontation with one of those bands of deserters when Bill had his first encounter with Wes Hammond. He and five men from his Ranger company had been searching for the band which included Hammond for several weeks. They finally caught up to them at a trading post some miles west of Bandera, where they’d already killed the proprietor and his family and were looting the place. When the Rangers arrived, the outlaws holed up inside the building. A two-hour gun battle ensued, during which one of Bill’s men was killed, and another badly wounded. The standoff finally ended when a Ranger was able to get close enough to the trading post to set it on fire. Forced to flee the structure or burn to death, the outlaws raced into a hail of lead, which cut down all but one. Wes Hammond managed to escape being hit, and made it to his horse. Bill caught up to Hammond just as he was climbing into the saddle. He ordered Hammond to surrender, but Hammond whirled, saber in hand, and slashed Bill across the belly. Bill staggered back, and managed to fire one shot before Hammond could strike again. His bullet took Hammond in the upper right arm, causing him to drop the saber. Bill collapsed, while Hammond, leaving him for dead, pulled himself onto his horse and disappeared through the smoke and haze. Bill survived, but took several weeks to recuperate. Months later, he heard Hammond had left Texas and joined back up with his old guerrilla outfit, led by a man named Jim Danby.

After the war’s end, with the Rangers effectively disbanded and replaced by the despised State Police, Bill took the town marshal’s job in Blanco. He liked law work, and the citizens of Blanco, for the most part, liked Bill. He envisioned remaining as Blanco’s marshal indefinitely, until the day Harold Perdue came home to find his wife, Georgia, in bed with Pete Channing. Harold was the mayor of Blanco, while Pete just happened to be Bill’s closest friend. Instead of doing the sensible thing, leaving town fast, Pete shot Perdue dead in his own bedroom. Later, when Bill attempted to arrest him, Pete pulled his gun. Bill hesitated, not wanting to shoot his best friend. That moment of indecision nearly cost him his life when Pete put a bullet in his chest. Bill’s two return shots tore through Pete’s belly. The gut-shot cowboy lingered for three agonizing days before he died. After Pete’s funeral, Bill turned in his badge, took off his guns, and left Blanco without looking back.

“So here we are again Cholla, chasin’ outlaws,” Bill murmured to his horse. “Reckon I don’t need to ask how you feel about that.”

Cholla merely twitched his ears and increased his pace. True to his mustang ancestry, the big paint loved to run, and enjoyed nothing more than the thrill of the chase.

****

Little more than three miles outside of town, Satterlee ordered the posse to a halt. Lying on a creek bank were the bullet-riddled bodies of two young boys, each no more than nine years old. One still clutched a fishing pole.

“Those bastards!” Satterlee exclaimed. “That’s Jody and Jesse Haskins. Just a coupla kids. No reason for Danby to do that.”

“You reckon we’d better check the Haskins’ place?” Spence Pennycuff asked. “Tracks’re headin’ that way.”

“Yeah. Can’t take the time to care for these boys properly. One of you toss a blanket over ‘em, then let’s keep movin’,’ Satterlee ordered.

“Sheriff, I don’t reckon we’ll find much left at Haskins’ house,” Derrick said. He indicated a thin wisp of smoke, barely visible against the hazy sky.

“Even more reason to swing by there,” Satterlee answered. “Won’t take but a minute or two. Let’s go.”

“Hold on, Sheriff. Someone’s comin’. Appears to be Mack Haskins,” Charley said, when a rider on a hard driven horse topped a small rise. He held a rifle, which he waved over his head. He pulled his horse to a halt once he reached the posse. A deep bullet crease, still oozing blood, marred his forehead.

“Sheriff,” he called. “I was just headed into town. Bunch of riders hit my place, shot me and left me for dead, then burned the house down and ran off my stock, except Rowdy here. Mary’s missing. Those men must’ve taken her. Got to locate my boys, make sure they’re safe, then go after my wife.”

“Slow down, Mack,” Satterlee advised. “Same bunch invaded town, looted the place and robbed the bank. We’re on their trail. Far as your boys, I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean, Sheriff?”

“There’s no easy way to break this. Your boys are dead, Mack. Shot by those men. They’re right behind us, on the creek bank.”

“Lord, no!”

Haskins buried his head in his hands, sobbing.

“Jimmy, you stay here with Mack,” Satterlee ordered. “Help him get his boys home, then catch up with us if you can.”

“We’ll catch up with you all right,” Haskins said. “Rowdy is fresh.” He glanced at the young Cherokee cowboy. “Let’s go,” he barked, “I’m gonna lay my boys out in the house and kiss ‘em, and then I’m ridin’ with you to get my Mary back!”

****

Danby’s gang had ridden west out of Wolf Creek for two miles, then turned due south, heading for Indian Territory. After pursuing them for three hours, Satterlee called for a twenty-minute rest break.

“What’re we stoppin’ for, Sheriff?” Red Myers demanded. “You can be sure Danby ain’t.”

“Won’t do us any good to ride these horses into the ground,” Satterlee explained. “Danby’s mounts can’t be in much better shape. Mack says they didn’t get more’n two fresh horses from him, so they’ll have to rest their horses, too.”

“Unless they stole more further down the line,” Spike Sweeney pointed out.

“In which case, it won’t matter anyway,” Bill said. “If they get fresh horses, they’ll make the Nations long before we catch up with ‘em.”

“Torrance, if you’re so worried about that spotted cayuse of yours, why don’t you just turn back?” Joe Montgomery asked.

“I ain’t worried about Cholla. He’s got plenty of miles left in him,” Bill replied. “However, most of the others don’t. Like G.W. says, we rest ‘em, or we lose ‘em—and if we lose these horses, we lose Danby’s bunch.”

“Much as I hate to agree with Torrance, he’s right,” Derrick added. “Twenty minutes won’t make much difference one way or the other.”

Bill allowed Cholla a short drink from his canteen. While his horse then grazed, Bill studied the other posse members. If pressed, he would have had to agree with Montgomery’s objections to some of the men chosen, starting with himself. Of course, no one in Wolf Creek knew of his background. Likewise, Rob Gallagher, and, to a lesser degree, Jimmy Spotted Owl, seemed unsuited to tangling with a gang of hardened outlaws. The same could be said for Doctor Munro. Bill knew the doctor had seen the results of combat as a surgeon, but was unsure as to his actual battlefield experience. At least there were no questions about Satterlee himself, nor either of his deputies. All were tough, experienced lawmen.

Red Myers, the tannery worker, and Spike Sweeney, the blacksmith, were riding side by side—two men who could be counted on in a fight. The four cowboys, Jimmy, Joe Montgomery, Phil Salem, and little Billy Below were grouped alongside their horses. Derrick and Charley were off by themselves, whatever thoughts they had locked in their heads.

All too soon, the twenty minutes passed, and the possemen were back in their saddles, galloping south once again.

****

Charley Blackfeather pulled his bay gelding alongside Bill and Cholla. The posse’s pace had settled to a steady lope, a gait that would cover plenty of ground, but still conserve the horses as much as possible.

“Bill,” he said, just loudly enough so only the hostler could catch his words, “I’ve been studyin’ on you since we left town. Seems to me you know a bit more about this whole business than you’re lettin’ on. Want to share somethin’?”

“Just a gut feelin’,” Bill answered. “Appears to me these tracks are a bit too plain, even for a bunch as big as Danby’s.”

“You think we’re bein’ led into a drygulchin’?”

“I wouldn’t bet against it, would you? Besides, you’re the one who said Danby likes to circle men back.”

“That’s right, I did,” Charley agreed. “I still get the feelin’ you know more about Danby than you’re willin’ to admit.”

“Only know what I’ve heard,” Bill said. “For now, let’s just keep our eyes and ears open—and hope G. W. isn’t so hell-bent on catchin’ up to Danby he leads us straight into a trap.”

“Right.” Charley slowed his horse, to drop slightly behind Bill.

By mid-afternoon, the posse had reached a stretch of rougher terrain, land crossed by shallow ravines and dry creek bottoms. A creek bed, deeper than the rest and marked by stunted cottonwoods and scrub brush, came into view. Bill studied it for a moment, then urged Cholla into a faster gait, pushing him into a dead run until he reached Satterlee. The sheriff and his deputies were still at the front of the posse.

“Sheriff,” Bill called.

“What is it, Bill?”

“Don’t like the looks of that creek bed ahead. Perfect spot for an ambush.”

“Danby ain’t gonna waste the time to pull a bushwhackin’,” Satterlee objected. “He’s in too much of a hurry to reach safety in the Nations.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Sheriff,” Bill protested.

“Torrance, you let me worry about how to handle this posse,” Satterlee snapped. “If you don’t like my way of doin’ things, then you can head back to town.”

“You’re in charge, Sheriff,” Bill answered, with a shrug. He slowed Cholla back to a lope, falling once again to the rear of the posse. Just as he did, a flock of startled crows, cawing in alarm, burst from the trees alongside the creek.

“Ambush!” Bill shouted. He peeled off from the posse as a barrage of gunfire burst from the brush.