Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  No other series packs this much heat!

  GRITTY HISTORICAL ACTION FROM

  From Frank Leslie

  DOUBLE DEATH

  Each man took his position outside a door, and from beneath long coats, both removed and cocked double-barrel shotguns. Timing their moves, each slowly turned the knob of a door....

  Inside their separate rooms, Wes and El Lobo waited. They wouldn’t have a clear shot until the bushwackers opened the doors far enough.... Suddenly, both doors came open, and both shotguns roared at the same instant, double loads of buckshot slamming into the empty beds. Before the sound of the blasts had died away, there was the rolling thunder of two Colts, followed by groans of anguish from the hall. In almost the same breath, Monique and Louise screamed.

  As though of one mind, West and El Lobo crept along the wall toward the partially open doors until they could see into the hall. As they emerged from their rooms, they were greeted by two dead men....

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, January 1998

  Copyright © Ralph Compton, 1998

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-17542-2

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  “Maybe there’s something to this thing called destiny. Life has a way of taking a man’s measure, forcing him to ride long hard trails likely not of his choosing.”

  —Wes Stone, New Orleans, 1884

  Prologue

  St. Louis. October 1, 1884.

  Thunder rumbled closer and a rising wind brought the first drops of rain pattering into the dusty street.

  “There’s a saloon,” Wes Stone said. “Let’s have a beer and wait out the storm.”

  Stone and the Indian—El Lobo—reached the sheltering porch of the saloon just as the storm broke, sheets of rain rattling on the shake roof. Cautiously Wes opened the door and stepped inside, El Lobo following. Even with hanging lamps it took a moment for their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. It seemed others had taken refuge from the storm, for there were nine men in the saloon besides the bartender. Two men sat at one of the tables and three at another, while four men stood with their backs to the bar. Silently they eyed the new arrivals. Wes Stone was barely eighteen and El Lobo was just a year or two older, but they were men in every sense of the word. Their Stetsons were new, their boots polished, and their trousers dark gray with black pin-stripes. Their boiled shirts were open at the throat and their black frock coats extended almost to the knees. But not enough to hide the twin holsters and leather thongs that tied them down. El Lobo moved first. He chose a table, hooked a chair with his boot, and sat down with his back to the wall. Wes approached the bar, making his way around the four who leaned against it. Their eyes were on El Lobo, for he had unbuttoned his coat, hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt.

  “Two beers,” Wes said.

  “Two beers,” said the bartender. “What’s the Indian havin‘?”

  “One of the two beers,” Wes said.

  “We don’t serve Indians,” said the bartender.

  “You’re serving me,” Wes said coldly. “What I do with the beer is my business.”

  He dropped his money on the bar and said no more. Silently the bartender drew the two beers. Wes took them, and careful not to come between El Lobo and the four men at the bar, he made his way to the table. Carefully he placed the glasses on the table and took a chair, angling it so that his back was to the wall. For a long moment there was silence. Then one of the men at the bar spoke.

  “You’re Wes Stone, ain’t you?”

  Wes sipped his beer, saying nothing.

  “Well, I’m Charlie Beckwith,” the stranger said, “and you gunned down a friend of mine in Dodge. I ain’t forgot.”

  Wes placed his glass on the table. “I never shot a man who wasn’t trying to kill me.”

  “I ain’t believin’ that,” said Beckwith. “You got yourself a reputation. You’re a tall rooster that’s made big tracks, and I aim to find out just how sharp your spurs really are.”

  “I have no fight with you,” Wes said.

  “The choice ain’t yours,” said Beckwith. “It’s mine.”

  “You ain’t shootin’ up my place,” the bartender bawled.

  One of Beckwith’s companions slugged him and he went down behind the bar. Slowly, his eyes on Beckwith, Wes Stone got to his feet. El Lobo followed.

  “No, amigo,” said Wes. “This is my fight.”

  “Come on, redskin,” Beckwith said. “I don’t like Injuns. Especially one that’s gussied up in fancy duds, packs a gun, and walks on his hind legs like a white man.”

  “Charlie,” one of his companions cautioned, “you’re ...”
<
br />   “Shut up, Dub,” said Beckwith.

  El Lobo stood up beside Wes, and Wes spoke.

  “Charlie, I regret having to shoot your friend in Dodge, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to. Take a few seconds to recall the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, and the smell of the rain, because all of that will soon be lost to you. The rest of you men are welcome to buy in, if you want to die alongside Charlie. El Lobo, I’ll take Charlie and Dub. The other two are yours.”

  “Sí,” El Lobo said.

  “If you still feel so inclined,” said Wes, “make your play.”

  “Charlie,” Dub said, sleeving sweat from his face, “if you want this fight, you got it.”

  Hands raised, he inched along the bar until he was near the door. Quickly he bolted through it, disregarding the pouring rain. Wordlessly Charlie’s remaining companions crept away from the bar and headed for the door, leaving Charlie Beckwith alone.

  “Well, Charlie,” said Wes softly, “it’s your play.”

  Slowly Beckwith raised his hands, sweat glistening on his palms. He sidled along the bar until he was near the door. He then ran from the saloon. Wes and El Lobo sat down and finished their drinks.

  “One day,” said the now-conscious bartender, “old Charlie’s whiskey talk will get him shot dead. I don’t think he’s ever been in Dodge in his life.”

  The worst of the storm had passed when Wes and El Lobo left the saloon. Empty, the faithful hound that followed Wes crept from beneath a building across the street. The dog hated saloons.

  “That was close,” Wes said. “I reckon we’ll have to avoid the saloons.”

  El Lobo laughed. “You tall rooster that make big tracks. Me, I just Injun that walks on hind legs like a man. Per‘ap I go back to moccasins, with blanket round my middle and feathers in my hair.”

  “You’ll have to overlook the white man’s prejudice,” said Wes. “Up to a few years ago, the Indians in this country gave the whites hell. Most of them haven’t forgotten, and old hatreds die hard.”

  Washington, D.C. October 2, 1884.

  “Come on,” said Bryan Silver in response to the knock on his door.

  Simpkins and Taylor, from the office of the Treasury, entered. Unbidden, each man took a chair facing Silver, who sat behind a desk. A gunbelt with a Colt revolver in the holster hung from the back of Silver’s chair, and the treasury men eyed it uncertainly.

  “You know why you’re here,” Silver said.

  “Oh, God yes,” said Simpkins with a sigh. “The situation has worsened just within the past three days. Another Pinkerton man has disappeared, and the agency has sent word they are withdrawing from the case.”

  “They might as well,” Silver said, “for they’ve accomplished nothing. Back off and I’ll take over. I’m going to St. Louis for a meeting with two hombres who have agreed to work with us.”

  “I trust they know what they’re getting into,” said Taylor.

  “They have some idea,” Silver said. “Do you remember Wes Stone, El Lobo, and what they accomplished south of the border? Remember the Sandlin gang?”

  “Yes,” said Simpkins, “but that was a rather loose alliance of outlaws. In this country, this conspiracy we know as the Golden Dragon is organized beyond belief. It’s impossible to destroy it one faction at a time. Do you actually believe a pair of young gunmen is the answer?”

  “Hell, I don’t know what the answer is,” Silver said, “but I know Wes Stone and El Lobo are more than just a pair of gunmen. Stone is barely eighteen, and already he’s seen duty as a Texas Ranger. I don’t know the Indian that well, but I know the two of them fought their way south to Mexico City and out again, pursued by hundreds of outlaws and the Mexican militia. If either of you have a better proposal, I’m listening.”

  “No,” said Taylor, “we’ll do it your way. Nothing else has worked.”

  “Good,” Silver said. “I’ll expect full cooperation from the Treasury, and that includes air tight security. Nobody—including the Congress or the President—is to know of this.”

  “That won’t be easy,” said Simpkins, “especially if another bank goes bust as a result of these counterfeit eagles and double eagles. A shame we can’t take this problem to the Congress and President Cleveland. We might cease minting eagles and double eagles and go to a paper currency.”

  Silver laughed, but it was without humor. “President Grover Cleveland and the United States Congress get along like a pair of cougars in a sack, and I can’t see the relationship improving. We must keep a lid on this and resolve it in our own way. I’ll meet with you again when I return from St. Louis.”

  “Good luck,” said Taylor.

  “One more thing,” Silver said. “I’ll need four thousand dollars. Two thousand of it in eagles and two thousand in double eagles.”

  “You’ll have it within the hour,” Simpkins said.

  St. Louis. October 7,1884.

  Wes and El Lobo, following Silver’s instructions, had taken a ground-floor room at the Grand Hotel. Empty lay beneath the room’s single window, dozing fitfully, for there was a continuous clatter of horses’ hooves and the rumble of wagons from the street.

  “Por Dios,” said El Lobo, “it seem like we wait in this hotel forever.”

  “I know,” Wes said, “but Silver warned us about making ourselves too obvious. Like we did in that saloon. If we’d had to shoot somebody, the law and the newspapers would have spread our names all over town.”

  Suddenly Empty got up and stood facing the door:

  “Somebody come,” said El Lobo.

  There was a soft knock on the door. After a pause, it was repeated three times.

  “Identify yourself,” Wes said.

  “Twenty-one,” a voice replied.

  Quickly Wes unlocked the door, locking it immediately after Silver had entered. With him he had a heavy leather case, and this he placed on the floor at the foot of the bed. He then took a chair, while Wes and El Lobo sat on the bed.

  “I can’t be sure I wasn’t followed from the steamboat landing,” Silver said. “When I’m gone, I suggest you take another room.”

  “Why not another hotel?” Wes asked.

  “No,” said Silver. “Stay off the street as much as you can. You may be in danger as you leave town, but that can’t be helped. I told you only a little of what you’re up against before you left Texas. Now I’m going to tell you the rest, and I won’t blame either of you should you decide to stay out of it.”

  “We’ll still be facing this outfit callin’ itself the Golden Dragon,” Wes said. “How much different are they from the Sandlin gang, except that they’re north of the border?”

  “The Sandlin gang couldn’t hold a candle to this bunch,” said Silver. “Mind you, I’m not playin’ down what the pair of you accomplished in Mexico. You were magnificent. But the Dragon’s organization in the States is unbelievably secure. You can’t break them up a few at a time. Attack them, and they all come after you in force. Five Pinkerton men have vanished without a trace and are presumed dead.”

  “I don’t like Pinkertons,” said Wes. “They gave my father hell.”

  “You won’t be bothered by them,” Silver replied. “They’ve withdrawn from the case.”

  “It be just us, then,” said El Lobo.

  “Yes,” Silver said, “and for your own safety, we can’t offer you any backup. All our men are known. The best I can do is give you a code granting you private use of the telegraph. Show the card to the telegrapher and you’ll be allowed to send any necessary telegrams to me without even the operator reading them.”

  “But they can still be intercepted,” said Wes.

  “Certainly,” Silver said, “and for that reason, don’t use the telegraph unless you have to. Here’s the coded card. Conceal it in your boot. If you’re captured and it’s found on you, it’ll be your death warrant.”

  “If there’s shooting,” said Wes, “what about th
e law? If this bunch is all you say they are, I’m gettin’ the idea they may wear a respectable face, forcing us outside the law. God knows, it gets a mite scary, bein’ shot at from both sides.”

  “I can’t promise you that you won’t be caught in the middle,” Silver said, “because we know so little about these outlaws. They could put a price on your heads of a hundred thousand dollars. That’s enough to corrupt many an honest man, lawmen included.”

  “Por Dios,” El Lobo said. “All bounty hunters in the world be gunning for us.”

  “All the more reason for you to keep your identities secret for as long as you can,” said Silver. “There’s a chance that you may already be known to some of the men within the ranks of the Golden Dragon. We have reason to believe that some of the higher ups in Mexico, seeing the Sandlin gang falling apart, rode north. If you get close enough, they may recognize you.”

  “Tell us again, in more detail, what the Golden Dragon is doing,” Wes said. “How can they become such a threat to the United States?”

  “I showed you one of their counterfeit coins when I met with you in Austin,” said Silver. “Here’s some more of them. Take a good look and then compare one of them to a genuine eagle or double eagle.”

  El Lobo chose an eagle and Wes a double eagle. They examined both sides of the coins and then, avoiding a throw rug, dropped them on the wooden floor.

  “Damn,” said Wes, “they look real and they sound real. What are they made of?”

  “Copper, silver, and just a little gold,” Silver said. “The base metal is worth only a few cents. They’re genuine enough to be circulated through banks. One bank went broke when it was discovered the bank’s total assets were counterfeit.”

  “Tarnation,” said Wes. “The bank president ..

  “Shot himself before we could get to him,” Silver said. “We’ve had cases where the genuine coins—en-route from the mint to banks—were switched. The banks unknowingly were circulating counterfeit eagles and double eagles. Almost every saloon and gambling house west of the Mississippi is bankrolled by the Golden Dragon. They take as much as eighty percent of the winnings.”