Hell on the Prairie (2 page)

Sam shoved the paper at him. “Read
this.”

Appleford bent over the desk. His smile
broadened, and became sincere.

“
Hell on the Prairie!” he said. “The
St. Louis
Dispatch
has picked
up my nickname for Dogleg City. Look, they even mention my name
near the end, as a ‘voice of civilization crying out in the
wilderness’.”

“
You’ll be crying out in the
wilderness, all right,” Sam said. “It’s bad enough you make these
wild claims here in town, now they’re blowing around the damned
countryside like tumbleweeds.”

“
Why, Marshal,” Appleford said.
“Sometimes your profanity verges on poetry.”

“
And sometimes,” Seamus said, bending
over the wiry editor, “my foot verges on your arse. It’s vergin’
right now, as a matter of fact.”

Appleford did his best to ignore the large
Irishman.

“
Marshal,” Appleford said. “Nothing
sells newspapers quite as well as a truth no one else is willing to
articulate.”

Sam’s right eyebrow arched. “By God, sir,
you do have some brass,” he said.

“
Put yourself in my place,” Appleford
said. “Consider what has happened in the past few months. Children
and schoolteachers shot and trampled in the street. The whole town
barricaded up to defend against an attack by Kiowa Indians. An
old-fashioned duel. Bounty hunters and gamblers shooting it out in
saloons. A range war outside town. More schoolchildren shot. An old
lady gets her brains blown all over the front door of the Methodist
Church, and the preacher’s wife gets kidnapped right from under
your deputy’s nose. If that’s not going to hell, I’d sure like to
know how you’d have me describe it.”

Sam grimaced. “I don’t deny,” he said,
“we’ve been having an active spell. But criticizing this office
doesn’t make things any better. It just contributes to more
disrespect and more disregard for the law.”

“
I report the news, marshal, and I
call it like I see it.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “There’s a lot to
be said for that,” he said at length. “I call it like I see it,
too. Fact is, some things have come to my attention lately. One or
two little secrets about our esteemed newspaperman that I’m sure
the good folks of Wolf Creek would find quite newsworthy. My
biggest decision would be which one to start with.”

Appleford blanched.

“
Are you –are you threatening me,
Marshal?”

Sam grinned, “Why, I’m not sure, old hoss.
Depends on whether you think your little secrets are threatening or
not.”

They were interrupted by the front door
slamming open. Mason Wright, the baker, rushed through it,
red-cheeked and breathless.

“
Marshal Gardner!” he exclaimed.
“Thank God you’re here!”

“
Hello, Mason,” Sam said. “I don’t
recall ordering any pies, but I’m never averse to one.”

“
I ain’t here about pies, Marshal!
There’s a fella in front of the Lucky Break says he’s looking for
you. Says if you don’t come quick he’s gonna go inside and start
shootin’ whoever strikes his fancy.”

“
That’s odd,” Sam said. “On a normal
day, there’d be a good five or six men at the Lucky Break who’d
shoot anybody who threatened to break up one of their card
games.”

“
This fella says his name is Lane
Downing,” Mason said.

“
That explains it, I guess,” Sam said.
“No one wants to get on his bad side.”

“
Lane Downing?” Seamus
asked.

“
I forget you haven’t been out west
long, Seamus,” Sam said.

“
Lane Downing,” Appleford explained,
“is one of the most famous gunslingers in the west. He’s left a
trail of corpses in his wake from here to San Francisco. They say
his speed with that Colt of his is unnatural.”

“
I suppose I’d better go see what he
wants,” Sam said, standing up.

“
I’ll get the shotgun,” Seamus
said.

“
No need for that,” Sam said. “I can
handle him.”

David Appleford gasped audibly. “Marshal!”
he said. “You can’t be serious –you need to get a posse together.
You can’t go out there alone!”

“
Well, Mr. Appleford –not to be
impolite, but he didn’t invite
everybody
, just me.”

Appleford wasn’t convinced. “Look, you don’t
have to do this to prove anything, because of what I’ve been
writing. No one would expect you to do that. Any sensible man would
take reinforcements to face Lane Downing.”

Sam took his hat from the rack. “I’ll be
back directly, Seamus. And Mason –you have set my mind on pies, can
you run fetch me one of those rhubarbs?”

“
Um, yes sir, marshal,” the baker
said.

Sam passed through the open door. He did not
take his cane.

While walking westward toward the Lucky
Break, he was joined by Samuel Jones, that establishment’s house
gambler and an accomplished gunfighter in his own right.

“
Hello, Marshal,” Jones
said.

“
Hello there, other Sam,” the marshal
replied. “What brings you out this time of day?”

“
I was just on my way to work, and
someone told me Lane Downing is causing a ruckus over at the Lucky
Break. I thought maybe you could use an extra gun.”

“
That’s real decent of you, Samuel,”
the marshal said. “But you just go on to work, I don’t need an army
to deal with one malcontent.”

Jones nodded knowingly. “I’ll stay close by,
just in case,” he said.

“
Whatever suits you.”

Suddenly, Sam Gardner stopped in his tracks.
He slowly looked back over his shoulder.

Seamus was following him at a discreet
distance, lugging the shotgun. David Appleford walked beside the
deputy, notepad in hand. Seamus tipped his hat at his boss.

“
I feel like I’m leading a wagon
train,” the marshal said.

He finished the trek to the Lucky Break.
Jones dropped back, to walk beside the deputy and the
newspaperman.

There was no mistaking Lane Downing. He
stood in the middle of the street, smiling wickedly from under a
broad sombrero.

“
I hear you were looking for me,” Sam
Gardner said.

“
You heard right,” Downing responded.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show up.”

“
I don’t think we’ve had the
pleasure.”

“
You’re right again,” Downing said.
“But you met Galan Hagney, up in Denver, a couple of years back.
You shot him dead, in fact.”

“
Seems like I shot several people up
in Denver, a couple of years back, I didn’t bother keeping them
straight. What was this one to you?”

“
Well, to be honest, Marshal, I never
met him, neither. But his brother’s a friend of mine, and I offered
to even the score for him.”

Briefly –only for an instant, really
–Downing’s eyes flickered to the crowd of onlookers who stood in
front of the saloon. One of them quickly glanced back –both he and
the man beside him were strangers to town, and both were keeping
their hands suspiciously close to their holstered pistols.

Sam smiled. Lane Downing felt the need for
reinforcements, just in case. He wasn’t as cocky as he sounded.

“
Downing,” Sam called out, “I have a
pie on its way to my office, and you’re wasting my time. I assume
this is all about your desire to have a new dead lawman to put on
your credentials. I’m standing right here, you’re not going to get
it done by talking to me.”

For the next two or three seconds, time
slowed down for Samuel Horace Gardner. It was always thus. His mind
emptied itself, his gun became an extension of his body. All his
attention was focused on his target, and other potential targets,
and everything else disappeared. This had first happened in the
early days of the war, in the heat of battle. It was like playing a
game of chess, all the way through, in one’s own head, before ever
the first move was made. It was fast as lightning, slow as thunder,
sure as death.

And it was the only thing in life Samuel
Gardner had ever truly been good at.

He gloried in it. He was in absolute
and complete control, in a way he never was during the so-called
peaceful pursuits of life. Those, for him, were only filler for
moments like this, when he was
alive
. It ultimately didn’t even matter whether
he lived or died, won or lost, those potential outcomes were not
even wisps of thought for him. He only
was
.

Three shots rang out from Sam’s pistol, in
such rapid succession some onlookers thought it had been only one.
Lane Downing, in all likelihood, never had time to realize his life
was over –one instant he was making his move, grasping the butt of
his Colt, and the next he lay dead in the dust. His two partners,
too, died with their guns half-drawn. One of them twitched a couple
of times after he hit the ground.

Sam stood for a moment, arm extended, smoke
curling from his barrel. Then he holstered his weapon and turned
around.

Seamus had not had time to lower his
shotgun. Jones stood with his gun in hand, but had not fired it.
Appleford had dropped his notepad in the street, and stood with
mouth agape.

The crowd of onlookers was silent, awed as
well. Sam had been hired on the force of his reputation, but had
rarely been forced to display his talents so openly. Some of them
had secretly begun to doubt the stories about him. They doubted no
longer.

“
Other Sam,” he called out to Jones.
“Are you going straight to the gaming tables, or do you have time
to stop by my office and sample that pie with us? Young Quint put a
fresh pot of coffee on before he passed out. We have a piece for
you, too, Appleford, if you promise to stop standing there
slack-jawed.”

“
Yes –yes sir, Marshal,” Appleford
said. The four of them walked back toward the office
together.

“
And if I might add, Marshal,”
Appleford said, “I believe you’ll be more pleased by the story in
our next edition.”

“
Yes,” Sam said, smiling, “yes, Mr.
Appleford, I dare say I will be.”

Wil Marsh had already appeared, as if from
thin air, and set up his camera –he was taking photographs of the
corpses before the marshal was out of sight.

THE END

DRAG RIDER

By

Chuck Tyrell

Texas, 1868

1

Billy’s Pa never came back from the war.
They never got word that he was dead, but more than three years
after Appomattox, he’d not showed up, and Billy made up his mind.
He just had to tell his ma. Hat in hand, he clomped into the
pole-and-mud cabin that served as the Gladstone home.

“
Go wash your hands and face, young
man,” Elva Gladstone said. “No son of mine is going to eat with
dirty hands.”

“
Didn’t come to eat, Ma,” Billy
said.

“
Then what?”

Billy held his hand out.

“
Gold? William Henry Gladstone, have
you robbed someone? Are you a bandit?”

“
No’m. But I sold twenty-five steers
to Walt Brodrick. Four bucks a head. So I could bring you a hunnert
in gold.”

“
Twenty-five?”

“
Yes’m. I been watching them mavericks
in the brush and catching me a calf ever now and again to cut ’n
brand. Took purt near two years to get twenny-five with a G-slash
brand on ’em.”

“
Did you steal cattle,
William?”

“
No’m. Mavericks’s free fer the
taking. Get ‘em outta the brush. Brand ‘em. Then drive ‘em
north.”

Elva Gladstone stood silent for a moment.
Then she held out her hand. “Thank you, William. The money will
hold us until father returns.”

Billy emptied the five double eagles into
his mother’s outstretched palm. “Pa ain’t coming home, Ma. ’N me,
I’m going to Kansas with Walt Brodrick.”

“
You are what?”

“
Going to Kansas.”

Elva Gladstone’s mouth opened, then closed,
then opened again. She tried to speak, but no words came. Tears
filled her eyes. She swiped at them with the back of her hand.
“Gets dusty in here,” she said.

“
Walt’s gonna have horses for me to
ride, and he’s paying me twenty-five dollars a month, and that’s
just starting pay. He said that if I ever made top drover, I’d get
twice that much.”

“
Kansas?”

“
Yup. To the railhead. Walt told me a
man named McElroy’d set up a shipping operation at a place called
Wolf Creek, and Walt’s gonna take a couple a thousand head of cows
up there.” Billy couldn’t keep the smile from his face. Cattle made
money, and ranchers needed cowboys to tend those cattle. May even
come the day when Billy Gladstone would be a rancher
himself.

“
Besides,” he continued, “Timmy’s
twelve –he’s big enough to do the chores around here.”

Elva squared her shoulders and stiffened her
back. “We’ll make out,” she said. “I’d better get something
together for you to take along.”

“
One a’ Walt’s riders’s coming by in
the morning with a remuda horse for me.”

Elva nodded and turned away. “Go wash your
hands and face,” she said.

“
Yes’m.” Billy spun about and ran for
the pitcher of water and washbasin on the stand by the pole-and-mud
cabin’s back door.