Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles (29 page)

“I'll maybe play a few hands of poker,” Wes said, “when somebody folds.”

Wes eventually sat in on a game, and after losing three pots, he began winning. Besides the house man, there were three other gamblers, one of whom was drinking from a bottle not quite a third full. After Wes won a fourth pot, the heavy drinker got up, and leaning across the table, spoke directly to Wes.

“You're winnin' just too damn often, pilgrim. What you got up your sleeve, besides your arm?”

Slowly Wes got to his feet. Shucking his coat, he spoke softly.

“See for yourself, pardner. A gambling man shouldn't drink. He does, and he's likely to see things that aren't there. If you've lost more than you can afford, I'll give back your money.”

“Like hell,” the drunken man said, “I ain't takin' nobody's charity.”

Unnoticed, the bartender had approached with a bung starter. He slugged the ornery gambler in the back of the head and he slumped to the floor. A pair of bouncers were right behind him, and they carried the unconscious man out of the saloon.

“You gentlemen continue your game,” said the houseman.

He dealt the cards, and the game went on. After losing enough to break even, Wes folded. He returned to the bar, bought two more beers, and joined El Lobo at the table.

“Malo,”
El Lobo said.

“It could have been,” said Wes. “The last thing we need is to attract attention to ourselves. We'll allow that
hombre
time to sober up enough to go on his way. With luck, he won't remember me or that knock on the head.”

But it didn't work out that way. Just as Wes and El Lobo were getting to their feet to go, the troublesome drunk returned. Pausing just inside the door, his hand near the butt of his Colt, he shouted at Wes.

“Draw, you damn cheat.”

“I didn't cheat,” Wes said, “and I won't draw. I have no fight with you.”

“The hell you don‘t,” the challenger bawled.

He had his weapon out of the holster before Wes drew, and he dropped the Colt when a slug ripped into his right arm, just above the elbow.

“Damn it,” said the bartender to one of the bouncers, “get the sheriff.”

“Get him a doctor and leave the sheriff out of it,” Wes said. “He's sober now.”

The would-be gunman said nothing, his shocked eyes on the blood soaking the sleeve of his shirt. To the relief of Wes and El Lobo, one of the bouncers led the wounded man toward the door, and he went without protest.

Cautiously, Wes and El Lobo left the saloon. They kept to the boardwalk, and none of the saloons they passed looked any more promising than the one in which the shooting had taken place.

“No more beer,” said El Lobo.

“Same here,” Wes said. “I don't like the stuff, but it's that or whiskey, if we spend any time in a saloon. I think we've about played out our hand, as far as the saloons are concerned.”

“
Sí
,” said El Lobo. “We find ‘nother Dragon, we trail him to place we be shot. Per'ap we be shot again.”

“You're right,” Wes said. “We know where they're headquartered. Sooner or later, one of them will leave the place. Startin' tomorrow morning, keeping shy of rifle range, we'll stake it out. If we can capture one of them, we'll see how the cards fall from there on.”

 

In the late afternoon, a sailing ship flying Mexican colors had anchored in the bay, and its cargo had quickly been unloaded by deckhands. Soon after, a wagon approached. Two men loaded four wooden crates and delivered them to the rear of the mysterious building from which Wes and El Lobo had been ambushed. The double doors were swung open just long enough for the cargo to be taken inside, and the wagon departed.

“That should be enough base metal to conclude our operation in San Francisco,” said Otis Belton.

“I wouldn't crow too long and loud,” Abel Wilks said. “When the powers that be have enough, what becomes of us? Somehow I can't picture us bein' put out to pasture, knowin' what we know.”

Belton laughed. “Don't be a fool. They'll never have enough. When we leave here, it'll be to set up somewhere else. I've heard talk we'll be moving inland. To Denver, maybe.”

“We still got them six crates to get aboard the ship,” said Wilks, “and that could be risky. There's them first two gents that escaped, and the other one who snagged Pike. I don't look for ‘em to try bustin' in here, and that means they're all likely up to somethin' else. All they got to do is stay out of range and watch this place, and when they catch us loadin' cargo on a ship, you think that won't give 'em ideas?”

“I'm making allowances for that,” said Belton. “The ship will lay over two more days. There's a storm in the making, and we'll do our loading at night, under cover of the rain. In the meanwhile, I have plans for anybody trying to spy on us. Starting tomorrow at dawn, I intend to have a dozen men scattered through the shops, saloons, and cafés behind us. Strangers approaching will be allowed to pass, but they'll be covered from behind. I'll have our usual sentries behind these walls with rifles.”

“Cross fire,” Wilks said, “and smart, as far as it goes. But you're forgettin' all the hell that broke loose over the gunfire from that last ambush. Another shootin' will just be an invitation to the law to come calling.”

“There won't be any shooting,” said Belton. “Like I told you, anybody gettin' close to us won't be bothered until he's trapped. Then he will be given a choice. He'll surrender or be gunned down. Not a man alive will buck that kind of odds.”

“I reckon not,” Wilks said. “What do you aim to do with them?”

“First, they're going to talk,” said Belton. “I want to know why they're after us.”

“Hell, I can tell you that,” Wilks said. “They're government men.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Belton. “They have a reputation as gunfighters. Could be that they're bounty hunters. Whoever they are, I intend to make examples of them. Once we've learned all they can tell us, I'll send them aboard and have Antonio drop them at sea.”

“That's risky,” Wilks said. “If somebody puts a little heat on him, Antonio Diaz will squeal like a pig.”

Belton laughed. “Not Antonio Diaz, captain of a Mexican sailing ship. Pay Diaz well, and he'd dump his own mother overboard. We have enough on him to hang him from a yardarm, and he knows it. Now there's a list of the men I want patrolling the grounds for the next two or three days and nights. Make it clear there's to be no shooting. I'll have the head of any man who fires an unnecessary shot.”

 

“I think we'll leave the horses behind and go on foot,” said Wes the following morning.

“No horse, no like,” El Lobo said.

“I know,” said Wes, “but we can't take them near enough to be of any help to us. We would be more easily discovered. Afoot, we can take cover in the brush along the ditch behind the place.”

They took a side street, avoiding the avenue along the bay, and the distance they had to walk wasn't much more than a mile. They passed saloons, shops, cafés, and the livery where they had once eluded pursuit. Nobody seemed interested in them, but once they had left the narrow street and entered the underbrush, two men emerged from one of the saloons. Cautiously they followed, and when they were out of sight, others left the cafés and saloons. A dozen strong, they came together in a skirmish line, dropping to their knees where they couldn't easily be seen. While there was no sound, Empty growled deep within his throat, his warning of imminent danger. Wes and El Lobo reached for their guns, but they froze when a cold voice spoke from behind them.

“Stand up slow, and loose them gunbelts. There's a dozen of us behind you, and more behind the walls ahead.”

Slowly Wes and El Lobo got to their feet and unbuckled their gunbelts. Empty, knowing trouble had caught up to them, had vanished down the drainage ditch, toward the bay.

“Now walk straight ahead,” said the threatening voice. “Make a run for it, and you're dead.”

Wes and El Lobo walked slowly, approaching the forbidding warehouse.

From a distance, Empty watched, knowing something had gone terribly wrong. There had been hostile men with guns, which the faithful hound understood only too well. Once the huge doors had closed, Empty crept cautiously toward the building. Starting at the rear of it, he made his way around it, seeking entry. But there was no way in, except by the doors, and they were closed. Slowly, Empty went back the way he had come. Reaching the drainage ditch, he again turned to look at the structure that had so recently swallowed Wes and El Lobo. Then, tilting his head toward the coming dawn, he howled once, mournfully. He then settled down, waiting. When his friends returned, he would be there.

Bryan Silver, on his way to meet Sheriff Rigger, stopped at the telegraph office to ask if there was a response to his carefully worded request. There was, and Silver stared at the brief message in disbelief. It said: “Seven days minimum to comply with your request.” Sheriff Rigger looked up from his desk as Silver entered the office.

“From the looks of you, I'd say it ain't good news,” said Rigger.

“It sure as hell ain‘t,” Silver said, easing himself down in a chair.

He dropped the flimsy yellow paper on the desk and Rigger read the message. Leaning back in his chair, he studied Silver's grim face. Finally he spoke.

“I reckon you can't wait seven days.”

“No,” said Silver, “I can‘t, and when I return to Washington, some heads are going to roll. But that's no help to me now.'”

“What do you aim to do now?”

“One way or the other,” Silver said, “I'm goin' into that warehouse. Will you loan me a Winchester and some shells?”

“Sure,” said Rigger, “but you ain't goin' alone?”

“No,” Silver said. “From here, I'm calling on U.S. Marshal Buford Anderson. I'll take him with me, along with as many deputies as he can round up.”

From the gun rack, Rigger took a Winchester repeating rifle, and from a desk drawer he produced two boxes of shells. He watched in silence as Silver fed seventeen shells into the weapon.

“‘Thanks, Tom,” said Silver, getting to his feet.

“Good luck,” Rigger replied.

 

The double doors swung wide, allowing Wes and El Lobo to enter the warehouse. Quickly the doors were closed behind them, and in the gloom they could see half a dozen men armed with Winchesters.

“In there,” one of the men ordered, pointing with his Winchester toward an open door through which lamp light shone.

Two of the armed men followed Wes and El Lobo inside. They halted before a desk behind which Otis Belton sat. Getting to his feet, Belton spoke.

“I am Otis Belton, your host,” he said with obvious sarcasm. “You've been trying hard enough to get in. Now that you're here, what do you want?”

Wes and El Lobo remained silent.

“One way or another,” said Belton, “you're going to talk. You can make it easy for yourselves, or you can make it difficult. Now how is it going to be?”

Wes and El Lobo said nothing.

“Very well,” Belton said. “Wilks, come in here.”

Careful not to come between Belton and his captives, Wilks entered the office.

“Take these two down below until I decide what their first lesson will be. Higgins, you and Bonner go with him.”

“Loose or bound?” Wilks asked.

“Bound hand and foot,” said Belton. “We can't allow them to become too comfortable.”

Wes and El Lobo, two armed men behind them, followed Wilks down a hall and into a small room. There the captives were bound hand and foot. From the floor, Wilks raised a heavy wooden door, revealing the dim outline of stairs. One of the armed men kicked Wes into the dark hole, and El Lobo soon followed. The door above them was closed, leaving them in intense darkness.

“Malo,”
El Lobo said. “This be hell.”

“Close enough,” said Wes. “We're in deep this time,
amigo.”

“
Sí,
” El Lobo said. “We die.”

 

When Wilks returned to Belton's office, he found Belton studying the Colts belonging to Wes and El Lobo.

“Remarkable weapons,” Belton said.

“I'll gamble the gents they belong to won't talk,” said Wilks. “Not to you, or anybody else.”

“No matter if they do or don‘t,” Belton said. “Either way, they're finished. Leave them in the hole for the rest of the day. It'll be raining heavy by dark. When our cargo is taken to the ship, the troublesome bounty hunters go with it. I'll talk to Antonio myself.”

“Good,” said Wilks. “I don't trust that Mex varmint as far as I can walk on water.”

 

 

When Silver reached the U.S. marshal's office, he found a deputy on duty.

“I need to talk to Marshal Anderson,” Silver said.

“He's gone to Sacramento on business,” said the lawman. “I'm Deputy Marshal Condon. What can I do for you?”

Taking his identification from his coat pocket, Silver placed it on the desk before the lawman. Condon, after reading it, whistled long and low.

“As you might expect, I am here because of a crime being committed against the United States,” Silver said. “Because of the magnitude of it, I don't believe you'd want to take the responsibility for what I have in mind.”