Bloody Trail (7 page)

“
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!”

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.”