Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (26 page)

Bell took the Winchester and examined it carefully. “Well, I'll be damned,” he muttered softly when he turned it over to discover the letters
L. Moody
carved on one side of the butt
.
“Well, I'll be . . . ,” he started to repeat. “I'm gonna need to take this with me as evidence,” he said. “Now let's go take a look at that body.”

A close look at the decomposing body convinced the deputy that it was in fact the notorious outlaw Red Shirt, and there was little doubt that he had killed Deputy Marshal Luther Moody to have had the rifle in his possession. He looked up at Carson and smiled. “This was sure enough a worthwhile trip. I wanna thank you both for your help, Mr. and Mrs. Cain.” He didn't linger after the grave was filled back in. So anxious was he to return to Helena with his news that he refused an invitation to stay for supper.

They stood watching for a minute or two as the deputy rode off toward the north. Then Carson could hold his tongue no longer. “Mr. and Mrs. Cain?”

“He just made the assumption since I told him my name was Millie Cain,” she replied. “I didn't think it was a good idea to tell him your name was Carson.”

“I reckon you're right,” he said. “I'll tell you the truth, though. For a while there, I thought you were fixin' to get rid of me for good.” He shook his head and repeated, “Mr. and Mrs. Cain.”

“Well, we've got chores to do,” she finally announced. “We can't stand here working our jaws all day.” She spun on her heel and headed for the house, but stopped and turned back to him. “I guess my name will be Millie Cain till the day I die if somebody doesn't get busy and start courting me.” She turned again and continued on her way.

“You don't mean—” he started.

Without turning her head, she called back, “Well, I'm not going to ask you.”

Read on for a look at another exciting historical novel from Charles G. West

LONG ROAD TO CHEYENNE

Available from Signet in July 2013.

Cam Sutton wheeled his buckskin gelding around sharply to head off a reluctant steer and drive it back into the shoot that led to a holding pen by the railroad siding.
That's the last one,
he thought, unknotting the bright red bandanna he had bought in Cheyenne and wiping the sweat from his face. He then turned the buckskin toward the lower end of the corral where his boss, Colonel Charles Coffee, stood with a tally sheet, watching the loading. The colonel turned to look at him when he rode up and dismounted.

“You ain't changed your mind?” Coffee asked hopefully. Young Sutton was a hardworking drover and had been ever since he'd hired him three years earlier. Coffee hated to lose him, but he understood Cam's desire to leave. Coffee owned Rawhide Ranch in Wyoming's Rawhide Buttes, but lately the better part of each year was spent driving cattle from the Wyoming counties of Niobrara and Goshen, a short distance across the line to Nebraska, where the colonel had established Coffee Siding. Cattle shipped from Nebraska were cheaper than cattle shipped from Wyoming because of the higher freight rates in Wyoming.

“I reckon not,” Cam answered the colonel's question.

“Well, I guess I can't say as I blame you,” Coffee said. “You're still young enough to have a hankering to see what the rest of the country looks like. I'd be glad to keep you on to work at Rawhide Ranch, but the days of free range are numbered. The settlers will be moving in before much longer.”

“That's what I figured,” Cam said, “and like you said, I've got a hankerin' to see some of the rest of the country before I decide to squat in one place.” He had been thinking a lot lately about his future in the cattle business. It was his feeling that the colonel's range was going to be severely cut back in the near future. Coffee owned several ranches, but he didn't own the land they sat on. It was all free land, government owned, and open to homesteading. Already some sections of their range had been fenced off, and unlike some of the other large ranches, the colonel was averse to using violent tactics to scare homesteaders away.

When Cam looked his situation straight in the face, he couldn't say that he was unhappy riding for the Rawhide. If he had to define it, he would say it was more of a restless feeling, an urge to move on. Of course, he could always head back down to Texas and sign on with some outfit pushing a herd of cattle up north, but he was tired of playing nursemaid to a bunch of brainless critters. It didn't help his restless feeling when he witnessed the increased traffic on the Deadwood Stage Road taking adventurous souls to the mysterious Black Hills.

Soon after the Black Hills were opened to prospectors, the stagecoach line had established a line of changeover stations from Cheyenne to Deadwood in Dakota Territory. Colonel Coffee's ranch in Rawhide Buttes was set up as one of the stops to change horses, so Cam had plenty of opportunity to see folks from all walks of life, all intent upon realizing the riches the Black Hills promised. Passengers were not the only cargo the coaches transported over the road. Every so often, a team of six horses pulling an ironclad Monitor coach, with a strong box bolted to the floor, and a couple of extra “messengers” with rifles aboard, rolled into Rawhide on its way back to Cheyenne. He really didn't know much about prospecting for gold, but he confessed that he was one who was always tempted to
go
see the elephant
. So he had decided to head up Dakota way to see for himself what all the fuss was about. He could then decide if he wanted to be a part of it or to simply move on someplace else. He had no family to concern himself with, so he was free to follow the wind if he chose. His thoughts were interrupted then by a comment from the colonel.

“I've got your wages here, up through the end of this month,” Coffee said. “You thinking about heading out right away?”

“Well, if it's all right with you, I thought I would.” Nodding toward the buckskin, he said, “Toby ain't worked too hard this mornin'. Might as well head on up toward Hat Creek. If it's all right,” he repeated.

Coffee smiled. “Of course, it's all right with me.” It was typical of the young man to concern himself with the thought that he might not be entitled to a full day's wages if he had officially resigned. The colonel handed Cam an envelope with his pay inside. “I added an extra month's pay in there. You're liable to need it. And listen. You come back anytime you feel like it. I'll always have a job for you.” He extended his hand in a parting gesture, joking as he and Cam shook hands, “And don't go telling the rest of the boys in the bunkhouse about the bonus. They'll all quit, probably wanting the same deal.”

“I won't,” Cam replied, grinning. “I 'preciate it, sir.”

“You earned it. You take care of yourself, boy.” He turned and walked toward the head of the siding.

* * *

Larry Bacon cracked his whip to encourage the matched six-horse team to maintain their speed up the incline. “Ha, boy, get up in there!” he called out to them. The team was not fresh, but still had enough left to respond, and they would be changed at the Hat Creek Station, about five miles away. The horses answered Bacon's urging, hauling the big Concord coach through a notch in the breaks south of Sage Creek. Inside the colorful yellow coach were six passengers: Travis Grant, a businessman headed for Deadwood; a man named Smith who claimed to be a cattle buyer; Wilbur Bean, an extra stagecoach guard; Mary Bishop, a widow; and her two daughters, Grace and Emma. Riding shotgun in the seat beside the driver was his grizzled partner, Bob Allen. Like Bacon, he was a veteran of the three-hundred-mile run between Cheyenne and Deadwood.

It was an unusually light load for the big eighteen-passenger coach, but there was additional freight that warranted the extra guard, or messenger, as the company called them. In the strongbox bolted to the floor was a neat bundle of currency totaling thirty thousand dollars. And the only nervous passenger in the coach was Travis Grant, who was planning to invest the money in the creation of a bank in the thriving town of Deadwood.

There had been frequent holdups of the Deadwood stage, four in one month's time by the notorious road agent, Sam Bass, and his gang. However, Bob and Larry were not expecting trouble on this run, in spite of the money they were carrying. Their reasoning was simple. The big gold shipments that the bandits were after were on the stages coming
from
Deadwood, and they were headed
toward
Deadwood. If any of Bass's agents were watching the stage when it left Cheyenne or Fort Laramie, they would see that there was not a full load of eighteen passengers aboard, so it was not a worthwhile payday to go after. To be safe, however, the company sent Wilbur Bean along for extra protection. For these reasons, Bob Allen was taken completely by surprise when they topped the rise and he suddenly discovered three men standing in the narrow notch, their pistols out and aimed at him. He reached for the shotgun riding beside his leg as Larry hauled back on the reins to stop the coach.

“That'd be your first mistake,” a voice warned from the side of the hill above him, and he turned to see the muzzle of a rifle aimed at him. “Suppose you just pick that scatter gun up by the barrel real gentle-like and toss it on the ground.”

Bob had no choice but to comply, so he did as he was ordered. “Damn,” he swore as he dropped the shotgun over the side, exchanging a quick glance with Larry. Both men were thinking the same thing, hoping that Wilbur Bean wasn't asleep in the coach.

“Now you just drive them horses nice and slow down to the bottom of the hill,” the gunman said after he jumped down to land on top of the coach. “Mind you, this here forty-four has a hair trigger, so you'd best take it real easy.”

“You fellers are goin' to a lotta trouble for somethin' that ain't worth the effort,” Bob said. “Hell, we ain't got but six passengers and three of 'em's a woman and two children. You ain't gonna make much offa this holdup. We ain't carryin' no gold shipment. Hell, word of this gets out and folks will be laughin' at Sam Bass and his gang.”

“Who says it's Sam's gang?” the gunman asked.

“Well, if I ain't took leave of my senses, that feller with the black hat and the black mustache standin' in the middle of the road down yonder is sure as hell Sam Bass,” Bob replied. “Ain't that right, Larry?” The two partners had had the unfortunate opportunity to meet Mr. Bass on another occasion while driving an ironclad coach between Custer City and the Cheyenne River crossing, so they were not likely to forget the man.

“I can't say for sure,” Larry said, and shot a warning look in Bob's direction. “That was a while back. It's kinda hard to identify anybody after that length of time.”

Seemingly amused by Bob's comment, the gunman prodded Larry in the back with the barrel of his rifle. “You just ease on down there, and we'll see if it's worth our time or not.”

Realizing just then what Larry was trying to tell him, Bob said, “I reckon you're right. I don't recall ever seein' Sam Bass up close enough to know if it was him or not.”

Inside the coach, the passengers were now very much aware of what was taking place. Mary Bishop's two daughters moved in close to their mother's sides for protection, their faces tense with fear. “Ever'body just stay calm,” Wilbur Bean whispered, and slid off the seat to crouch at the door, his rifle ready. A second later, he felt the impersonal barrel of a Colt .44 pressed hard against his back.

“I'll take that rifle, unless you're ready to meet your Maker right now,” Mr. Smith informed him, and Wilbur released it immediately. Smith, whose real name was Cotton Roach, then addressed Travis Grant. “I'll take that pea shooter you're carryin' in your inside coat pocket too. And while you're at it, you can come up with the key to that strongbox—save us the trouble of havin' to break it open with a cold chisel.”

His face drained of color, Grant hurried to do as he had been directed, knowing that the nightmare he had feared was even now unfolding before his eyes.

As the stage pulled slowly to a stop, the three men on the ground immediately surrounded it, brandishing their weapons and yelling orders for everyone to get out. Bob and Larry both locked their eyes on the door, anticipating some move by Wilbur Bean, expecting the possibility that he might come out firing. Neither of them had been relieved of their handguns, so they were poised to act when Wilbur surprised the bandits. They were almost stunned when he opened the door and calmly climbed down, Mr. Smith right behind him with a gun in Wilbur's back. A firm tap of the rifle barrel on the back of Bob's neck then reminded him that the gunman was still there. “Now, with your left hand, reach over and pull that pistol out of the holster and drop it on the ground,” he ordered. “One at a time!” he scolded when Larry started to do the same. When Bob dropped his weapon, the gunman told Larry to do likewise. “Now, both of you get on down.” He remained standing on top of the stage while he watched Bob and Larry climb down to stand away from the coach with their hands raised. “Have any trouble in there?” he asked Cotton Roach.

“Nope, no trouble,” Roach replied.

“Where's the man with the key?”

“He's comin',” Roach said. “He's peein' his pants right now, but he ain't gonna give us no trouble.”

The outlaw still on top of the stage nodded to the man standing at the door of the coach now. Motioning toward Bob Allen, he remarked, “He said he recognized you.”

Sam Bass nodded slowly, then turned to address Bob. “You think you know me?” he asked.

“I told you we shoulda wore them masks,” one of his men said.

“Shut up, Joel,” Bass responded while never taking his eyes off of Bob.

Knowing he might have placed them all in jeopardy by his earlier remark, Bob tried to lessen the damage. “What I said was I thought you favored Sam Bass a little bit. Hell, I don't have no idea who you are.” He glanced at Larry, who rolled his eyes heavenward in response. Both men shifted their gaze to the weapons lying in the dirt a dozen yards away.