Six Gun Justice (2 page)

Alarm was quickly replaced by a cold anger that took possession of his mind, leaving him sitting on the side of the hill, overlooking his home. The light was waning as he replaced the spyglass in his saddlebag, and touched spurs to his horse. He did no hurry from his place of concealment, letting his horse walk the rest of the way down the valley, coming out on the east side of the log house.

The man sitting on the front porch dropped his chair from its leaning place against the front wall, his hand dropping near his holstered pistol. He eyed the tall man who stopped his horse in front of him, peering through squinted eyes at the tied down pistol, riding low on the man’s leg, and moved his hand carefully away from his own weapon, to clutch the bowl of the pipe he was smoking. He did not want to give this man a reason to draw down on him; besides, he might just be another gun his boss had hired.

“Howdy mister,” he said a bit nervously around the pipe. “This is private property here. You lost or something?”

“Nope, been a long time on the trail. Where’s the owner?” Jake asked, resting his hand on the butt of the Colt dragoon that rode low on his hip.

“That’d be Mister Murdock. He’s got another spread about ten miles to the west of here, over in Smoke Canyon. He don’t take too kindly to strangers though, less you got some business with him.” He looked up at Jake, with a sly grin.

“Reckon I got some business to take up with him. What handle do you go by?”

The man on the porch was becoming more nervous, and fidgety by the minute, his eyes never left the hard face of the man astride the horse in front of him.

“Name’s Matt. Mind if I ask what your business is with the boss?”

“No. I think you probably should know, since you’re sitting on my front porch.”

“Huh,” the man called Matt choked out, in a smoke strangled voice. “Who the hell are you mister?” he asked, coming out of his chair. “Words like that can get a man killed.”

“I reckon it could at that. The question is who. The name’s Jake Killman. I own this house and the land you’re on, no matter if that claim
jumper; Murdock has set his cap on it.”

Matt sat his horse, not making a move, waiting to see what would happen next, his hand still resting lightly on the butt of the Colt.

“George, Tom! You two best get out here! I think we’ve got trouble!”

“You best keep your hands clear of the hogleg Matt,” Jake said softly. “That is, unless you’re prepared to eat breakfast in hell. And tell those other two men to come out with their hands empty. I’ll kill the first man who steps out that door with a gun.”

“G…George, don’t do anything f…foolish. This feller has got the drop on me. Keep your hands away from your guns. You hear?”

Two men with scruffy beards exited the cabin, their hands held away from their sides, eyes darting nervously around, trying to find the source of the fear in their friend. When they looked to their left, all they saw was the lone rider, sitting quietly on his horse, his gun still in the holster.

“Matt, you damned coward!” one of the men expostulated. “He ain’t even got his gun out!”

“Shut up George! Can’t you see how he’s wearing that Colt? Don’t do anything foolish, or you’ll get us all killed,” the one called Matt said shakily.

Not bothering to listen to the advice of his friend, George made a grab for the six-gun on his hip. The gun was barely in movement, when the man standing just behind and to the right reached for his own weapon. There was a thundering roar as three shots sounded so close together; they were as one long roll of sound. One of the slugs hit George in the stomach, the second in the throat, and the third made a neat hole in the forehead of the man behind, before both guns could clear leather. Jake’s smoking barrel turned to Matt, who was holding his hands in front of him as though to ward off the next shot, which never came.

“Stand as you are Mister, and drop that gun on the porch with your thumb and finger. If you make a move to grab for it, or that rifle against the wall, I’ll kill you where you stand,” Jakes deep voice growled from the now growing dusk.

Sidestepping his horse to the small makeshift corral that was attached to the house, he checked the brands on the horses there. All but four of them wore the brands of the rocking K, his own brand. Calling to Matt, he had him rope out three of the four mounts that carried the circle M brand, and had him saddle them. When he was finished saddling the mounts, he had him tie the two bodies across the saddle, and released the fourth, giving it a good whack with his own quirt.

“Now, get on your horse, and ride out of here. When you get to Murdock’s ranch, you be sure to tell him that Jake Killman is home, and that this ranch is off limits to him and his punchers. If I catch him, or his men on my land again, I’ll kill them.”

“Y…Yes sir,” he stammered. “I…I’ll do that. But if I do say so, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes K...K…Killman. Mister Murdock ain’t going to like this, not one bit.”

“I don’t expect he will, but he’s just going to have to get used to it. You just tell him what I said,” Jake said harshly.

Without a further word, the man called Matt mounted and rode out, leading the two horses with his friend’s bodies draped across the saddles. Killman sat watching them out of sight, the dwindling light of the oncoming night swallowing them, as though some giant mouth had devoured both horses and men. He sat his horse for a few minutes, keeping to the shadows, just in case the man called Matt decided to turn back, and try his hand a bushwhacking him. He finally dismounted, loosened his cinch, and threw his saddle over the rail of the corral, along with the blanket and bridle.

When he stepped through the door, he could see the remains of dirty plates on the table, a coating of dirt on the wooden floor, that his beloved Sarah had always kept white enough to shine in the dim light of a lamp. The drapes were becoming dingy from lack of washing, their were cigarette butts strewn across the floor, where careless boots had ground them out, dirty pots were piled in the large kitchen dishpan, and the house showed the general disarray of punchers who had the manners of pigs, and little regard for the amenities of housekeeping.

Standing his rifle against the wall, near the door, and hanging his hat on the peg above it, he closed the door. He stepped across the room and into the kitchen area, picking up a corn broom that stood just inside the back entrance, and set about cleaning up some of the dirt and cigarette butts. When he had completed this chore, he pumped some water into the large dishpan, washed the dishes, putting them away in the cupboards. He turned and surveyed the log house, thinking how neat and clean Sarah had kept it. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do, until she was back home again.

His first thoughts were to go into Strawberry, seek out his wife, or find out what had happened to her. It was a foolhardy thought. It was an eight-mile ride into the settlement, and it would be too late to find out much. The only thing there that would be open would be the mercantile, and the saloon, by the time he got there, and he wasn’t too sure the mercantile would be open. The only other thing in the settlement would be the run down eating place, and a couple of clapboard houses along the dirt trail running in front of them.

He walked into the bedroom, lit lamp, gazing at the disheveled mattress that lay on the iron bed, the litter of whiskey bottles near the side, and the same litter of cigarette butts that littered the floor in this room, as in the front part of the house. He shook his head, set the rifle against the wall near the head board of the iron framed bed, shucked his gun belt and hung it nearby. Any more cleaning would have to wait until the morning. He was tired from his long ride of the last week, and the let down after the sudden surge of adrenaline caused by the shooting. All he wanted right now was to lie down and sleep.

He didn’t bother to take off his clothes, just lay down on the dirty mattress and rest. He lay his head back against the sweaty smelling ticking, closed his eyes, and tried to put the recent happenings out of his mind, drifting into a light sleep; a sleep he had gotten used to when he rode with Forrest’s cavalry. He did not believe anyone would come back tonight, but he couldn’t afford to take that chance. Small sounds in the night brought him awake instantly twice during the night, but they were only the normal sounds of the night, sounds he would have to get used to again.

The next morning, he fixed himself a breakfast from the salt pork he found hanging in the pantry, and a half dozen eggs he found in one of the nests near the back of the house. He didn’t take time to make any biscuits, and he wasn’t much of a hand at it anyway. He finished his meal, took the dirty plate and skillet to the dishpan, and washed them, then strapped on his gun belt, doffed his hat and stepped out to meet the new day.

The sun was just peeping over the mountains, and them morning air was crisp and clean, the tall pines soughing in the light morning breeze, the odor of the pine needles pungent to the smell. He stood on the front porch of the home he had left behind, shrugging into his vest, and wondered how he could have been such a fool to have left all this behind. He had had the word at his fingertips, and a wife that loved him, yet his ire had caused him to take up the sword of a lost cause. Now he had to fight to reclaim his ranch, and find the woman he had set such store by.

Calling his horse, he put a double handful of oats in the nosebag, hung it over his ears. He smiled as the horse started munching on the grain, and continued across the corral to the large wooden trough, where he pumped water into it, before taking down the curry comb from the side of the wall. He spent the next few minutes currying, and brushing the horse, listening to the munching, and an occasional grunt of contentment. It was one of the few peaceful times he had been able to enjoy over the last three and a half years, so he spent a little extra time enjoying this small chore, as the sun reached out to caress the land around him.

When the horse had finished the bag of oats; Jake removed the bag and placed it in his saddlebag, led the horse over and let him drink deeply, then placed the bridle on his head. The saddle blanket and saddle came next. He placed the saddlebags behind it, tying the pigging string to hold it in place, then swung his long lanky frame into the saddle, and turned his her head toward the settlement.

He wasn’t sure if he would find his wife’s trail in town, but it was a start. He didn’t think Sarah had left out of anger, but more likely out of despair. He did not expect any woman to run a four hundred acre spread by her self. Hell, he wasn’t sure he would have blamed her for leaving, even if it had been in anger. What he was sure of was that he loved her, and he wanted her back, and he wanted his old life back. He couldn’t regain the last four years of his life, and maybe he couldn’t even expect Sarah to come home with him, even if he did find her. He sure as hell hadn’t bothered to write to her while he was gone, not that it would have done much good. The Confederacy hadn’t had much of a postal service in the beginning and it quickly deteriorated to a state of chaos close to the end.

He kept his sorrel at a walk, letting his eyes and ears warn him of any impending danger. He looked for all the world like any cowboy out for a nice morning ride. He could smell the fresh smell of the sagebrush, that was made fresh from the nights light shower, reveled in the beauty of the Indian fire that bloomed along the trail, and the squirrels that scampered through the branches of the pines, chattering their indignantly at the intrusion of this man into their world. They were joined in their chattering by a couple of chipmunks, the flash of a startled deer and a stray coyote in search of a morning meal.

He reached the settlement in little more than an hour, and pulled rein in front of the saloon, which he remembered was the busiest place. He swung from the saddle, wrapped the reins once around the hitching rail, stomped across the board porch that was the entrance, and into the clapboard building. There was no one inside this early in the morning, but the barman, who stood behind the bar polishing on a whiskey glass.

“Hello Mike. Long time no see amigo,” he said to the man behind the bar.

“Jake? Jake Killman? I thought you were killed in the war! Ain’t nobody seen, nor heard from you in more than three years, so we all thought you was dead,” he said, sticking his hand across the bar. “How the hell are you?”

“Pretty good. I hear Harvey Murdock has been swinging a pretty wide loop since I left here. I had to run two of his men off my ranch last night.”

“You don’t know the half of it Jake. He has taken over every acre of land he could buy or steal, within fifty miles along the Rim. I’ve even heard rumors that he has planted a couple of hombres that didn’t want to sell. You watch your back Jake.”

“I’ll do that amigo. Do you know where Sarah headed for, when she left the ranch?” Jake asked, toying with the glass of rye his old friend had poured for him.

“She went down to Payson. Not much work around her to keep her in clothing, and food. I haven’t heard from her since she left the ranch. Let’s see,” he mused. “I think that was more than seven or eight months past.”  He reached across the bar and poured another drink in Jake’s glass, and replaced the cork in the bottle.

Jake downed the rye, smiled at his friend and tossed a silver dollar on the bar.

“Thanks Mike. I guess I’ll ride on down to Payson, and collect my Sarah. Did she say why she left the ranch?”

“She said it was too much work for her, but I got the feeling she was upset about something else. Could be that Murdock was leaning on her a mite.”