Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles Read online

  “Damn,” Nance said. “Another bad one.”

  “Here,” said Whitmire sourly, passing Quince another stick of dynamite.

  Quince placed the second stick, lighted the fuse and retreated. The blast shook the very ground on which they stood, as a portion of the shaft ahead was torn loose and piled waist-deep on the passage floor.

  “Now get busy,” Nance said.

  The men took picks and shovels and began. Conversation was impossible, and Wes had no way of knowing if Quince had salvaged the original stick of dynamite, or where he had concealed it. The day dragged on. There was only a brief respite while they had their stale corn bread and bean soup. Halfway through what might have been midafternoon, one of Macklin’s wracking coughs drove him to his knees.

  “Get up,” Whitmire shouted. “Get up and get to work.”

  But Macklin couldn’t get up. The terrible coughing continued, his breath coming in rasping sobs. Removing the coiled lash from his arm, Whitmire laid it on the unfortunate Macklin’s back. But when he drew back the vicious lash for a second blow, Wes caught his arm.

  “You heartless son of a bitch,” said Wes, “the man’s sick. He should have a doctor.”

  “It’s you that’ll be needin’ a doctor,” Whitmire said, driving his foot into Wes’s groin. Wes doubled up with pain, and freeing the whip, Whitmire laid it on. The force of it drove Wes to his knees, and the beating continued until El Lobo leaped forward, seizing Whitmire’s arm. But it stayed the lash for only a moment, for Nance had his Winchester cocked and leveled at El Lobo. Slowly El Lobo backed away, and when Whitmire’s arm tired, he coiled the whip. Wes lay belly-down, breathing hard.

  “Get up,” said Whitmire, “or you’ll get more of the same.”

  Wes struggled to his hands and knees, and then drunkenly to his feet, but he wasn’t beaten. He said nothing, but when his eyes met those of the surly guard, Whitmire backed up a step, a chill climbing his spine. It was Nance who spoke.

  “You two ain’t been here but a day, and already you’re shapin’ up as troublemakers. I reckon we’ll have to report you to Judge Hawk. What you just done ought to get you at least another year.”

  “Couple of you drag Macklin out of the way,” Whitmire ordered.

  Silently, Quince and Kincer carried the unconscious Macklin away from the debris that blocked the passage. The weary men, taking up picks and shovels, resumed their never-ending task. Macklin was left alone, seeming to grow weaker with each fit of coughing. He couldn’t be roused for his suppertime ration of corn bread and bean soup. Kneeling beside him, Wes tried for a pulse, but found none. Macklin’s painful breathing had ceased, and his skin was cold.

  “He’s dead,” said Wes.

  “Bastardos,” El Lobo said. “Los diablos.”

  “What’s the jabberin’ about?” Nance demanded. “Get Macklin on his feet.”

  “You get him on his feet,” said Wes through gritted teeth. “He’s dead.”

  “Couple of you tote him to the guard shack at the mouth of the tunnel,” Nance said. “I’ll follow, just so’s you don’t forget to come back.”

  “Rest of you, back to work,” said Whitmire.

  Quince and Kincer carried Macklin to the mouth of the mine, leaving him there. They then plodded back down the shaft, joining their unfortunate comrades. Finally the terrible day ended and the guards withdrew, taking the lantern with them. Macklin’s death had been a blow to them all, and for a while nobody spoke. Kincer broke the painful silence.

  “Quince, did you save the dynamite?”

  “Why, hell yes,” said Quince irritably. “Didn’t I say I would? Had it in my boot all day, just ruinin’ my foot.”

  “Find some dry place to hide it,” Wes said. “It’ll take a couple of weeks to get the rest of it.”

  “Well, I ain’t in favor of waitin’ that long,” said Baker. “Two more days of blasting, and we could have enough.”

  “No,” Quince said. “Dynamite don’t misfire that often. ”One day out of three, maybe, but not every time.“

  “He’s right,” said Wes. “It’s our one chance to free ourselves of this dungeon, and we can’t afford to arouse any suspicions.”

  “Hell,” Olson said, “what gives you the right to order the rest of us around? I can’t see you bein’ all that smart, takin’ a beating for a dead man.”

  “Just call it my business,” said Wes, seizing Olson by the front of his shirt. “Maybe in some ways I’m not too smart, but I’m smart enough to have come up with a plan to break us out of here, and I won’t have an ignorant varmint like you spoiling it. Comprende?”

  “Yes,” Olson growled. “I just ain’t wantin’ to wait.”

  “Well, you’re going to,” said Wes. “One fool move out of you, and you’ll answer to me. If it means the difference between freedom and bein’ stuck in this hole, I’ll personally kill you without any regrets.”

  He shoved Olson, who stumbled back against the passage wall.

  “What he just said goes double for me,” Quince said.

  “Me too,” said Kincer. “For a ticket out of here, I’ll wait another month, if it takes that long.”

  “It ain’t gonna take that long,” Quince said. “I figure just about the time we get our hands on enough dynamite, Judge Hawk’s bunch of renegades will be ridin’ out on another lootin’ spree.”

  “I want out,” said Baker, “but I’ll wait for the right time. Olson and me ain’t been in here but a day. I reckon we don’t have that much of a handle on the situation.”

  “Damn it,” Olson said, “speak for yourself. I’m just goin’ along because there’s more of you than there is of me.”

  “It’s fortunate for you that we can’t bust out without takin’ you with us,” said Quince. “If it was so I could, I’d leave you in here to rot.”

  “We all have a common problem,” Wes said, “and we can’t afford fighting among ourselves. All of you know where I stand. Quince, get us a couple more sticks of dynamite, but do it as you safely can.”

  Quince waited a week before taking a second stick of dynamite, and the misfire didn’t seem to arouse the suspicions of Whitmire or Nance. In fact, they seemed preoccupied with something other than the men in their charge.

  “Somethin’s up,” Quince predicted. “I look for another raidin’ party pretty soon.”

  Three weeks after the start of their plan, Quince got the third stick of dynamite that was necessary for their escape. Two days later, Whitmire and Nance were absent, and two other guards took their place.

  “They’ve rode off on a raid,” Quince whispered when they stopped at noon for their meager ration of corn bread and bean soup. “We got to make our break tonight.”

  Near the end of their brutal workday, the earth shook with the rumble of thunder, as a storm moved in from the west. Their guards retreated, taking the lantern.

  “By God,” said Kincer, elated, “with that thunder, them that’s left here ain’t likely to hear our blast.”

  “That gives us an edge,” Quince said. “We got to make our break while that thunder’s shakin’ the world.”

  “When we get out,” said Baker, “we’ll still be in leg irons with no weapons.”

  “Not for long,” Wes said. “I know Judge Hawk has a couple of shotguns, and I reckon the Colts he took from us. We’ll pay him a visit.”

  “Yeah,” said Olson. “You got a knife. Kill the old bastard in his bed.”

  “We’re not killing anybody, if we can avoid it,” Wes said. “I figure Hawk has keys to these leg irons, and we may never find them with him dead. Leave the judge to El Lobo and me. Once we’ve taken care of him, the rest of you can come in.”

  “He owes us for the months we’ve worked this damn mine for nothing,” said Quince. “If he’s got any gold, I aim to claim wages.”

  “Yeah,” Kincer agreed.

  “Wages, hell,” said Olson. “Let’s take it all and split it.”

  “Once we’re out of here and ha
ve our weapons,” Wes said, “it’s every man for himself. El Lobo and me won’t be taking anything that wasn’t taken from us. That includes our gold, our weapons, our saddles, and our horses. Those of you who take more than you deserve will be stealing. Whatever Hawk is—however crooked he is—he still might have the law on his side.”

  “All the more reason to kill the old fool,” said Olson.

  “I don’t think so,” Quince said. “Aside from the right or the wrong of it, some of the outlaws will still be here, and shooting will warn them something’s wrong. If we can break in on the judge without firing a shot, there’s a chance we can ride away from here without any of us bein’ hurt. Start a gunfight, and some of us may die.”

  “That makes sense to me,” said Baker, “since we don’t know how many of that bunch may still be in town. We better do it their way, Olson.”

  Olson said nothing. Wes felt a hand on his arm. Quince was returning his knife. They followed Quince in single file as he started along the passage toward the shaft through which they hoped to escape.

  “Here’s the piece of candle,” Quince said softly. “If you’ll light it, Stone, I’ll use it to set off the dynamite.”

  Wes lit a match, touching it to the candle’s wick, and immediately the small flame did a dance, leaping toward the passage ahead. They followed Quince only a short distance, and they could hear the dripping of water somewhere ahead. Again thunder rumbled, shaking the earth.

  “This is far enough,” said Quince.

  Quince moved on, the flickering flame of the candle growing smaller as he neared the end of the shaft. Then there was a shower of sparks from a sputtering fuse, and the sound of chains, as Quince hurried along the passage. When the explosion came, they were flung to the floor, showered with earth and fragments of stone.

  “On your feet!” Quince shouted.

  They were barely in time, for the river rushed in, and they were suddenly waist-deep in water, fighting to avoid being dragged back into the flooded shaft. Once they were free of the hole they had blown in the riverbank, they waded to shore. Jagged golden fingers of lightning danced across the western horizon, followed by rumbles of almost continuous thunder. The wind whipped sheets of rain into their faces as they stumbled along the riverbank. In the distance, when lightning flared, they could see the distant shapes of buildings which were Hawktown. There was a single pinpoint of light, and Wes led the way toward it. It proved to be the saloon, and with Wes leading the way, the men circled around to come in from the side, away from the light that shone through the front window. Taking advantage of a flash of lightning, Wes held up his hand for the others to halt. When he again moved toward the saloon, only El Lobo followed. Slowly they worked their way to the window through which the light shone. Just inside the door, his chair tilted against the wall, sat Sheriff Hobie Denbow. His hat was tilted over his eyes, and a shotgun leaned against the wall beside him. Wes tried the door, and when it opened there was a squeak. Denbow slammed his chair to the floor, but before he could get his hands on the shotgun, Wes hit him. The chair toppled over with a crash, and like a cat Denbow was on his feet. The door to Judge Hawk’s office swung open, revealing Hawk in his nightshirt. He held a shotgun, but El Lobo had been waiting beside the door. He seized the shotgun, wrenching it from Hawk’s hands. He then turned the weapon on Hawk, as Wes and Denbow fought. Wes ducked Denbow’s right, bringing up one of his own, slamming Denbow against the wall. As Denbow slid down to a dazed sitting position, Wes took the other shotgun, holding it on Denbow. Reaching behind him, Wes shoved the door open, allowing the light to penetrate the rainy darkness. It was signal enough for the drenched men who waited, and they filed into the saloon.

  “Find some rope,” Wes ordered, “and let’s settle these hombres down.”

  “You’ll never get away with this,” shouted Denbow. “Help ...”

  Wes slammed the muzzle of the shotgun against his head, silencing him.

  Quince had been in Judge Hawk’s quarters and emerged with two lariats. Quickly Wes cut the rope into the right lengths, binding Denbow hand and foot, while El Lobo—with the help of Quince—bound Judge Hawk in a similar fashion.

  “I’ll have the law on you,” Judge Hawk hissed. “You can’t run far enough.”

  “Nobody’s going to recognize your kind of law,” said Wes. “Where are the keys to these leg irons?”

  Hawk laughed. “You’ll never find them.”

  “I think we will,” Wes said. “I was in favor of letting you live, but you’re beginning to talk me out of it. Denbow’s coming to. Maybe we’ll find out how much he wants to live.”

  When Denbow opened his eyes, the muzzle of the shotgun was right under his nose.

  “We want the keys to our leg irons,” said Wes. “We’re leaning toward shooting both of you, and then taking this place apart one board at a time. The judge won’t cooperate. How much do you want to live?”

  “There’s a key in my pocket,” Denbow said sullenly.

  “One of you have a look,” said Wes. “I’ll just keep this shotgun in place, in case he’s lying.”

  Kincer knelt down and digging into Denbow’s pocket, came out with a key. He tried it on his irons and they opened. Quickly, he freed his companions.

  “Now,” Wes said, “we feel like you owe us something, judge. My amigo and me, all we expect is the gold you took from us, our weapons, our horses, and our saddles. The rest of these hombres aim to make you pay a little more than that. I doubt they’ll kill you, if you don’t say the wrong thing, but I’m making no promises.”

  Quince, Kincer, Olson, and Baker had gone into Judge Hawk’s quarters, and there was a shout.

  “Damn it,” said Wes, “quiet.”

  “There’s a cash box with near twenty thousand in it,” Quince said.

  “Thirty-five hundred in gold belongs to El Lobo and me,” said Wes. “Do any of you want to dispute that?”

  “Not me,” Quince said. “We owe you our freedom.”

  “Damn right,” said Kincer. “Take your money.”

  “We got nothin’ but your word you’re owed thirty-five hundred,” Olson said.

  “That’s right,” said Wes, “you have my word. Is that not good enough?”

  “It’s good enough,” Baker said, casting a swift look at Olson.

  El Lobo had found the gunbelts and Colts belonging to himself and Wes, and leaning in a corner were their Winchesters. While they buckled on their gunbelts, Quince counted out thirty-five hundred in double eagles. Olson and Baker said nothing. When Quince had finished counting, Wes loaded the gold into his and El Lobo’s saddlebags. Quince and Kincer had found weapons of their own, aware that Baker and Olson had their eyes riveted on Judge Hawk’s cash box.

  “El Lobo and me are going after our horses,” said Wes. “I’d suggest the rest of you finish your business here and ride out, because you don’t know how soon Judge Hawk’s bunch will return.”

  “We owe Hawk some punishment,” Kincer said. “It don’t seem right, us ridin’ out and leavin’ the old buzzard alive.”

  “Leaving him alive is punishment enough,” said Wes. “Him and his pet sheriff will be laughed out of the territory, when word gets around. When his bunch rides in and finds both of them trussed up like Christmas geese, they won’t seem so powerful. Besides, with the mine flooded, he’ll never sentence another man to hard labor.”

  Wes and El Lobo left the saloon, stepping into the rain-swept darkness. With a bark of joy, Empty came trotting up to Wes. Reaching the livery, Wes stepped inside, pausing when he heard a loud snore. Following the sound to a bunk, he drew one of his Colts and smashed the muzzle of it against the sleeping man’s head. He then struck a match, found a lantern, and lighted it. While El Lobo saddled their horses, Wes found some rawhide strips and bound the still-unconscious liveryman. At least he wouldn’t sound the alarm before the others made their escape. Quickly Wes and El Lobo left the livery, riding south.

  “We no go west,” El Lobo said.


  “No,” said Wes. “It’s the long way around, but I think we’ll ride through Santa Fe. If the Golden Dragon still has a pack of killers looking for us, maybe they won’t be expecting us there. After that time in Hawk’s mine, we’re in need of some decent grub and a change of clothes.”

  Eventually the rain ceased and the wind swept the clouds away. By starlight they rode south, toward Santa Fe....

  Chapter 9

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. December 17, 1884.

  By the time Wes and El Lobo had reached Santa Fe, the weather had grown colder and another storm was blowing in from the mountains to the west. Snow swirled about them and they had tied down their Stetsons against the rising wind.

  “Just in time,” Wes said. “While this one blows itself out, we can hole up here. Some rest and decent grub will be welcome.”

  “Sí,” said El Lobo. “Per‘ap nobody be here that try to kill us.”

  “We can’t be sure of that,” Wes said. “We’ll have to keep our guns handy.”

  The town had already prepared for the coming storm and the streets were virtually deserted. Lamps had been lighted, casting a cheery glow from many windows. A lighted lantern hung over the double doors of a livery, while almost directly across the street a pair of bracket lamps lighted the door of a hotel. Beside it, its windows steamed up, was a café. They reined up before the livery and Wes pounded on one of the doors with the butt of a Colt. Fighting the wind, a hostler shoved the door open enough for Wes and El Lobo to get their horses inside.

  “Rub them down and grain them,” Wes said. “We aim to bed down in the hotel until this storm blows itself out. Do you have a place for our saddles?”

  “In the tack room,” said the hostler.

  The hotel wasn’t crowded and there was no objection to Empty. Wes and El Lobo were assigned a first-floor room just off the lobby where they quickly changed clothes. Not having had a decent meal since leaving Dodge, they went immediately to the next-door café. It was considerably past the dinner hour and too early for supper. That, and with the storm becoming more intense, the cook sat on a stool sipping coffee.