Ralph Compton Train to Durango (10 page)

•   •   •

“Rein up and sing out,” a voice challenged.

“Illivane,” the outlaw replied.

His remaining eight men hunkered around a burned-out fire, waiting. Illivane got down and began unsaddling his weary horse. He was in no hurry to break the unwelcome news.

“I'll take care of the horse,” said Hawser. “You tell us what you found out in Dodge.”

There was no help for it, and Illivane told them, concluding with his narrow escape and the armed men before the jail. When he had finished, there was a long silence. Concho finally spoke.

“How in hell did Hampton, Damark, and Lawton end up in jail?”

“I wasn't able to find out,” Illivane said.

“I reckon you're gonna leave ‘em there to hang,” said Easterly.

“Hell, no,” Illivane shouted angrily. “We'll ride in and bust ‘em out, if every one of us is gunned down to the last man.”

It had the desired effect—an uproar of shouting, cursing protests. Illivane said nothing until it all dribbled down to an uneasy silence. Then he spoke.

“A man with a price on his head has two choices. He can hide where he hopes the law won't never find him, keepin' his nose clean, or he can keep pushin' his luck till it's run out. You think if any one of us was in the juzgado, that them three would risk their necks tryin' to bust us loose?”

“Hell, no,” they growled in a single voice.

“Then we'll split the gold nine ways, and it's every man for himself,” said Illivane.

“So much for honor,” Bender said.

They all laughed uproariously. Illivane said nothing. His leg hurt like hell.

•   •   •

Dodge City, Kansas, April 7, 1885

There was no disturbance during the night, and by the time Silver and his companions reached Delmonico's for breakfast, Foster Hagerman, Harley Stafford, and Sheriff Dumery were already there.

“I got some telegrams,” Sheriff Dumery said, “but not them I was looking for. There's one from a newspaper in St. Louis, another newspaper in Kansas City, and a third from a paper in San Antonio.”

“They intercepted his telegrams regarding those three killers,” said Hagerman. “They're wantin' a confirmation before they print anything.”

Silver laughed. “Send them one. That ought to put the fear of God into the varmint in Kansas City who hired this pack of killers. The Golden Dragon is quick to reward those who fail, whether they're at fault or not.”

“Maybe they won't find it so easy, hiring a new bunch of killers,” Harley said.

“I wish we could be sure of that,” said Wes. “Gold has some strange effects on men, shooting their judgment all to hell.”

“I'll get telegrams off to them newspapers today,” Sheriff Dumery said. “I'm for doing whatever it takes to keep killers out of Dodge. I got to admit this has turned around in a way I didn't expect.”

Hagerman laughed. “He thought this conspiracy was going to draw killers from everywhere, and I was afraid he might be right. Now, with three of them facing the rope, I'd say it's having the opposite effect.”

“Don't crow too loud, too soon,” Silver warned. “The Dragon always hires killers outside its own ranks, when it can, because there's little danger to the organization if they're killed or captured. Our move in Indian Territory, our use of the telegraph, and especially our use of the press has crimped their tail feathers, but it won't stop them.”

“El Diablo de oro,” said El Lobo.

Sheriff Dumery had taken some paper and a pencil from his pocket, and was writing.

“Here,” he said, passing what he had written to Foster Hagerman. “These are answers to them three newspapers. Get ‘em off as soon as you can.”

“I'll send them when I return to the depot,” Hagerman promised.

“I reckon some of us ought to keep a close watch on the eastbounds,” said Harley. “If these Dragon
hombres
is all gathered in Colorado, the next trouble may come from there.”

“You watch the trains when you're in town,” Hagerman said, “and when you're away, I'll be watching.”

“
Bueno
,” said Silver. “We're obliged.”

Warily, they all left Delmonico's together. Harley Stafford and Foster Hagerman headed for the depot, and after a moment's hesitation, Sheriff Dumery went with them.

“I like Dodge,” Molly said, when she and Silver were in their room, “but I'm getting awful tired of just doing nothing. How much longer?”

“I don't know,” said Silver. “I'm counting on those hired killers from Indian Territory pulling up stakes and riding on, now that they know their
amigos
are locked up. If they do, the Dragon will be forced to back off and try again. Once they pull out all the stops and turn their big guns on us, we won't be able to hole up here in Dodge. Eventually we'll have to take the offensive, and hit them hard, where it hurts.”

When the westbound train rolled into Dodge, Harley Stafford was there. Only one man got off, and as he stood looking around, Harley was watching him. He carried two tied-down Colts, and his dress was not that of a cowboy. His Stetson hat was tipped forward so that the brim shaded his eyes, and he wore a ruffled white shirt beneath a fancy red tie. His dark trousers were tight and tailor-made, and his highly polished black boots reflected bright in the morning sun. Since there was nobody else around, he fixed his cold blue eyes on Harley, a half smile on his lips.

“You lookin' for somebody?” Harley asked.

“Matter of fact, I am,” said the stranger. “Is Wes Stone still in these parts?”

“He is,” Harley said.

“You see him, tell him Gabe Wilkins has got business with him.”

“I'll tell him,” said Harley. “And you'll be where?”

“Around,” Wilkins said.

He turned away, and ignoring Harley, started toward town.

“He looks like trouble,” said Foster Hagerman, who had joined Harley.

“He is,” Harley said. “Another gun-thrower looking for a reputation at Wes Stone's expense. I might as well tell Wes he's here.”

It was still early, and the saloons hadn't opened. Sheriff Jack Dumery, recognizing the newcomer for what he was, stopped Wilkins on the boardwalk.

“You aim to be in town a while?” Sheriff Dumery asked.

“Until I'm ready to leave,” said Wilkins. “What business is it of yours?”

“It's always my business, when an
hombre
shows up with a tied-down brace of Colts,” Sheriff Dumery said.

“You got a gun law in Dodge?”

“No,” said Sheriff Dumery.

“Then back off,” Wilkins said.

Dumery stepped aside, allowing the haughty gunman to proceed. Harley Stafford was on the opposite side of the street, and the sheriff waited for him.

“That two-gun varmint's looking for Wes,” said Harley. “I'm goin' to warn him.”

“You might as well,” Sheriff Dumery said. “I reckon he won't be surprised.”

Reaching the Dodge House, Harley knocked on the door of the room Wes and Renita occupied. It was opened almost immediately. Wes was dressed, except for his hat. Harley entered, and Wes closed the door. Renita sat on the bed, a worried look in her eyes, but there was no way of sparing her. Harley relayed the bad news.

“You should have told him Wes wasn't here,” said Renita angrily.

“Renita,” Wes said, “Harley did exactly what he should have done. A man can run, but he can't hide from this kind of thing. It's better I face him and be done with it.”

Wes checked both his Colts, thumbing a sixth load into each of them. He reached for his hat.

“I'm going with you,” Renita cried.

“You're staying right here,” said Wes, “and until I return, don't you open the door.”

“Wes can take care of himself,” Harley said reassuringly. “I'll be goin' with him.”

Harley and Wes went out, and Wes locked the door.

“I'd better tell Silver,” said Wes.

But Silver had been aware of Harley's arrival, and when Wes closed and locked the door, Silver opened his.

“Trouble?” Silver asked.

“No more than I've been expecting,” said Wes. “I'm bein' called out again.”

“Palo and me will go with you,” Silver said.

“Harley's going,” said Wes.

“Fine,” Silver said, “but Palo and me are going too.”

Another door opened, and El Lobo stepped out. Wes said no more, and when he began his walk, Harley, Silver, and El Lobo were two paces behind. Sheriff Dumery waited across the street. The few citizens who were up and about quickly ducked through doorways into the shops, nearby. Wilkins had reached the end of the boardwalk, and when he saw the four men approaching, he grinned in anticipation. So there would be no obstruction, he stepped into the dusty street. A block away, Wes left the boardwalk and entered the street. Harley stepped off the boardwalk into the street and remained there. Silver and El Lobo crossed to the other side and avoiding the boardwalk, waited in the street. His three friends were out of the line of fire, but were positioned to side Wes if there was any sign of treachery. Wes walked on, his hands swinging at his sides. When he was sixty yards from his antagonist, he halted.

“You're Stone, are you?” Wilkins inquired.

“I am,” said Wes. “What business do you have with me?”

“Gun business,” Wilkins said. “My draw against yours.”

“You're a fool,” said Wes.

Wilkins laughed. “You ain't gettin' out of it. Pull your iron.”

“I don't need the advantage,” Wes said. “When you're ready, make your play.”

“Draw, damn you!” Wilkins shouted. His trembling hands hovered near the butts of his twin Colts.

Wes Stone said nothing, waiting. Suddenly Wilkins moved with blinding speed, drawing both Colts. He fired, the roar of his first shot blending into the thunder of the other. But he was about to learn—as so many had learned before him—speed without accuracy only got a man killed. Both Wilkins's shots were wide, and he stood there unbelievingly, his eyes on Wes Stone. Wes drew his right-hand Colt, and it seemed he did so reluctantly. He fired once, with deadly accuracy, and Wilkins stumbled backward. Blood welled out of the hole in his chest, soaking the front of his boiled shirt. As his grip weakened, the twin Colts fell into the dusty street. Then his knees buckled, and Wilkins collapsed, his cold, sightless eyes turned to the blue of the morning sky. Wes started back along the boardwalk. Sheriff Jack Dumery still leaned against an awning post.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” Wes said. “It wasn't of my choosing, and I can't promise there won't be more.”

“You did what you had to do,” said Sheriff Dumery. “It couldn't have been any more fair. A two-gun man that draws ‘em both at once is a damn fool.”

Wes went on, bound for the Dodge House. He was aware that El Lobo, Silver, and Harley followed. They said nothing, nor did they need to. Reaching the Dodge House, Wes knocked on the door and identified himself. Renita opened the door and ran to him, tears of relief streaking her cheeks. Wes sat her down on the bed. He then removed his hat, his gunbelts, and finally, his boots.

“Come on,” Wes said. “It's over and done.”

“Until the next time,” said Renita.

“You know I had no choice, just as I'll have no choice the next time,” Wes said. “I'm learning the same deadly lesson my father, Nathan Stone, learned before me. He tried to hang up his guns, but he couldn't. Come the end, he died as he had lived. By the gun.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” Renita begged. “Somewhere where nobody knows you.”

“We'll go when it's time,” said Wes, “but not so that I can hide. I believe God allows some of us to shape our own destiny, and if my trail comes to an early end, I'll have none to blame but myself.”

“I'll be with you until the end,” Renita said, “whenever and wherever it comes.”

It was just as well she didn't know that more would-be gunslingers would soon be coming, and that Wes Stone's life-and-death drama would be played out again and again.

In the aftermath of the shooting, Wes was in a somber mood. Silver and El Lobo, respecting his feelings, left him and Renita alone. A letter to Silver had arrived on the westbound train, but Foster Hagerman had decided not to deliver it until after Wes had faced Gabe Wilkins. Even though there was no return address and the letter was unsigned, Silver knew who had sent it. Quickly he read the contents, Molly beside him.

“Oh, hell's bells,” said Silver angrily.

“When are you going to tell the others?” Molly asked.

“Suppertime will be soon enough,” said Silver. “There's not a blessed thing we can do about it.”

Silver waited until supper was over. For a change, Harley Stafford, Foster Hagerman, and Sheriff Dumery were absent. When he produced the letter, Wes and El Lobo looked at it without enthusiasm. When Silver received written messages from Washington, it rarely was good news.

“I can tell you in just a few words what this is about,” Silver said. “President Grover Cleveland's plans for sending soldiers to Indian Territory leaked out, and some powerful enemies in the Senate have blocked the move. The only saving grace is that these varmints who killed the proposal are using their influence to silence the newspapers.”

“While there won't be any soldiers coming,” said Wes, “the outlaws in the territory won't know that, with the newspapers keepin' quiet.”

“Probably not for a while,” Silver said, “but it won't matter to us. After that first bushwhacking failed and three men went to jail, I doubt the Golden Dragon will be sending more killers from Indian Territory. The next bunch will be more professional.”

“You try,” said El Lobo.

“It was a good move,” Wes agreed, “but all the killers aren't in Indian Territory. From now on, I doubt the forces behind the Golden Dragon will do anything so obvious.”

“You're probably right,” said Silver. “We'll have to be more cautious than ever.”

•   •   •

Denver, Colorado, April 8, 1885

Dent Shankler, who had once been in charge of the Dragon's forces in Carson City, knocked on Drade Hogan's door. Hogan bid him enter, and he did so, closing the door behind him. Hogan nodded to a chair and Shankler sat down.

“You served us well in Carson City, and I'm about to ask you to perform an even greater service,” Hogan said.

“I'll do the best I can,” said Shankler cautiously.

“Splendid,” Hogan said. “Do you know of one other within our ranks with whom you'd prefer to work?”

“Turk Pardue,” said Shankler. “He was with me in Carson City.”

“Get him,” Hogan said, “and both of you report back to me.”

•   •   •

Gandy Franks sat on his sagging bed in the room he had rented in a rundown rooming house. He reached for the bottle on the floor, found it empty, and cursed under his breath. Nervously he counted his money. There was a little more than five hundred dollars. Since his fall from grace, he had forsaken all his dreams. Now he was obsessed with the will to live, and the killers he had so often hired and sent after others would soon be coming for him. He couldn't afford to run and hide with the little money in his pocket, and suddenly, as though by inspiration, he thought of something. Frantically he searched through all the assorted papers in his wallet, coming up with a blank check. The bank was in Kansas City, so he would have to travel there first. He swallowed hard. If he wasn't doomed already, he would seal his fate when he took unauthorized funds from the Golden Dragon's account. He took a traveling case with his few clothes and went in search of a livery. He must have a horse and saddle. While the nearest railroad was in Boulder, it was also the most obvious. He would ride to Cheyenne, and from there, take the Union Pacific.

•   •   •

Shankler and Pardue returned to Drade Hogan's office within the hour.

“I suppose you recall the troublesome gunmen who helped to spoil our operation in Mexico, New Orleans, Carson City, and San Francisco,” Hogan said.

“Only too well,” said Shankler. “Wes Stone and Palo Elfego. They're still on the loose, are they?”

“Worse than that,” Hogan said. “They now have Bryan Silver with them, and he's their equal with a Colt revolver or a Winchester.”

“So you want us to find and dispose of them,” said Pardue.

“Finding them won't be difficult,” Hogan replied. “They're in Dodge. Disposing of them may be another matter entirely, and it seems they're daring us to come after them. They have considerable influence there, including a friendly sheriff. We hired a dozen man-killers from Indian Territory. Three of them were captured during a failed ambush, and they're in the jail at Dodge, facing the rope. The rest of them have ridden to parts unknown.”

“Before we jump in over our heads,” said Shankler, “do you have any advice for us?”

“Yes,” Hogan said. “Avoid use of the telegraph. Stone sends and receives Morse as well or better than any man alive. The only other thing that might be helpful to you is the fact that Stone's likely the fastest gun west of the Mississippi. He's become a target for all the would-be gun-slicks who are ready to kill him and assume his reputation. His latest victim was Gabe Wilkins.”

Shankler whistled. “I knew Wilkins. He killed his share of men.”

“Stone buffaloed him, somehow,” said Hogan. “Wilkins fired twice, missing both times, and only then did Stone fire. He didn't miss.”

“If that's the caliber of varmints challenging Stone,” Shankler said, “I can't see them being of much use to us.”

“They might be useful in drawing attention from you,” said Hogan. “When Stone gets called out, Silver and Elfego are in the street with him. Siding him, but out of the line of fire. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“It does, for a fact,” Shankler said, “if we can track down some of these gunslingers and head ‘em toward Dodge.”

“You know where Mobeetie, Texas, is?” Hogan asked.

“Just barely in north Texas,” said Shankler. “A wide place in the trail.”

“The young man you'll be looking for is Curly Dismukes,” said Hogan. “He has the rare distinction of having called out Wes Stone and lived to talk about it.”

“Then he ain't gonna be anxious to try it again,” Pardue said.

Hogan laughed. “Word has it that Dismukes is ready to ride back to Dodge right now, even before his wound has healed. He'll be interested in anything you can suggest that might give him an edge. Use him any way you see fit, and if he's reluctant, sweeten the pot with five hundred dollars. It'll be worth twenty times that, if he kills Stone. But if it goes the other way, and Stone guns him down, we haven't lost a thing. In this bag is your expense money. Ten thousand, in double eagles.”

“Our double eagles, or real ones?” Shankler asked.

“The real ones,” said Hogan, not in the least disturbed. “From now on, we're going to be much more careful.”

Taking the canvas sack, Shankler and Pardue left Hogan's office. When they had gone. Hogan took stationery and envelopes from a desk drawer and began writing. There were two thorns in his side that were becoming more painful by the day. Gandy Franks had, he was sure, decided to run for it. He had little doubt that Morton Tindall, in Kansas City, would be of like mind. In the letters he was writing, he placed a ten-thousand-dollar reward—dead or alive—on the heads of Franks and Tindall. Hogan had been toying with the idea of sending Franks to Durango, to confer with Elias Hawk and Hobie Denbow. Now he could think of nobody in whom he could trust for so important a mission. He would go himself, for much depended on what Hawk and Denbow had accomplished.

•   •   •

Mobeetie, Texas, April 10, 1885

Shankler and Pardue could have taken the train from Boulder to Dodge, and from there ridden horseback to Mobeetie, but they did not. Instead, they saddled their horses, placed a Winchester in their saddle boots, and rode directly from Denver to Mobeetie.

“So what if we'd of got off the train in Dodge?” Pardue complained. “Stone and none of his friends know us.”

“Maybe not,” said Shankler, “but they'll be watching the trains. You can be damn sure they'd be suspicious of us. We got to handle this so we got Dismukes facin' Stone without Stone or none of his compadres knowin' we're around.”

Pardue laughed. “While Stone's shootin' Dismukes full of holes, you and me can be cuttin' down Silver and Elfego.”

“You're gettin' the idea,” said Shankler. “All we got to do is convince Dismukes that he can't lose.”

Mobeetie consisted of a rundown hotel, a livery and blacksmith shop, a mercantile, a cafe, and an enormous building with PANHANDLE SALOON in foot-high red letters across the front.

“We'll try the saloon first,” Shankler said.

It was early afternoon, and except for a barkeep the establishment was deserted.

“Couple of beers,” said Shankler.

The drinks came, and Shankler downed half of his before he spoke again.

“We're lookin' for a young gent name of Curly Dismukes,” Shankler said. “Know him?”

“He's nursin' a gunshot wound,” said the barkeep cautiously. “You here to finish the job?”

Shankler laughed. “We're here to pay him some money, unless you figure he don't need it.”

“He needs it,” the barkeep said. “His bar tab ain't goin' no higher till he pays. You'll find him at the hotel.”

Shankler pounded on the door, and curses from inside told them Dismukes had likely been awakened from drunken sleep. But he was sober enough to stand away from the door, his Colt drawn and cocked, until Shankler and Pardue were inside. Dismukes wore only his trousers, and his hair curled in unruly tufts all over his head.

“What do you want of me?” Dismukes growled. “You the law?”

“No,” said Shankler. “I'm Shankler, and he's Pardue. We got three reasons for us bein' here. We want you to do yourself a favor and us a favor. We don't expect a man to work for nothin'. We'll pay you five hundred dollars to do what you're plannin' to do anyway.”

“Tell me,” Dismukes said sourly.

“You aim to gun down Wes Stone,” said Shankler.

“Yes,” Dismukes said, “and I won't take money for that. It's a personal thing.”

Shankler laughed. “Sure it is, just like the five hundred we're offering you. Nobody will know of it except you and us, and you'll still get the credit for gunnin' down Stone.”

“You want him dead, why don't you bushwhack him?” Dismukes asked. “It won't cost you nothin' except a couple of slugs.”

“Because we're wanted in Kansas, and we can't afford a run-in with the law,” Shankler said, “but there ain't a law that stands in the way of you callin' him out and gunnin' him down.”

“Just like there ain't no law agin Stone gunnin' me down,” said Dismukes. “Why don't one of you call him out and do your own killin'?”

“Neither of us is his equal with a gun,” Pardue said. “You're a real gun-thrower, and nothin' less will be enough to salt down this hombre.”

Dismukes laughed. “Scairt of him, huh?”

“Damn right,” said Shankler. “The gun-thrower that drops Stone will have some big boots to fill. There's others like you, so we'll track down some of them, since you ain't interested in our deal.”

“I didn't say I wasn't interested,” Dismukes said. “I just can't figure why you're payin' me to gun down a man I plan to kill anyway. If you ain't picky about how he dies, why don't you set up an ambush and shoot him in the back?”

Shankler laughed. “Stone ain't an easy man to bushwhack. He just walked away from one without a scratch, and the three varmints that cut down on him are in jail, facing the rope.”

“Stone has a dog with him, and the varmint won't let you get close enough for bushwhacking,” Pardue added. “That damn hound will hunt you down in the dark and sink his fangs into you like a lobo wolf.”

“Show me the color of your money,” said Dismukes.

From his pocket, Shankler withdrew a canvas bag. He dropped it on the floor, between Dismukes's bare feet.

Dismukes's eyes slitted, his hands twitched, and greed got the better of him. Seizing the bag, he dumped its golden contents on the bed.

“Count it,” Shankler ordered.

“I aim to,” said Dismukes.

He counted out the double eagles in stacks of five. Satisfied that the five hundred was there, he shoved it all back into the bag.

“Keep it,” Shankler said. “It's yours.”

“You'd trust me to ride to Dodge and keep my end of the bargain?” Dismukes asked.

“When it comes to money or women, I don't trust any man,” said Shankler. “We'll be ridin' to Dodge with you, but keepin' out of sight. When you decide where you aim to face Stone, we want to know. We want to see him get his.”

“Have it your way,” Dismukes said. “I don't care. When do we start for Dodge?”

“Soon as you can clean yourself up and get mounted,” said Shankler. “We leave now, we'll reach Dodge after dark. You can call out Stone in the morning.”

“The barkeep at the saloon says you got a right hefty bar tab,” Pardue said. “That is, if you aim to pay it.”

“I don't,” said Dismukes. “After I gun down Stone, I reckon I'll be gettin' drinks on the house, wherever I go.”

“That and more,” Shankler said. “You'll be famous.”

Dismukes reached for his shirt, buttoned it, and then drew on his boots. He buckled his gunbelt around his lean middle, thonging down the holster on his right hip. He then drew the Colt and stood there border-shifting it from one hand to the other. Shankler and Pardue said nothing. The ego-smitten young fool was playing right into their hands.