Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles Page 16

  “It’s gonna git almighty cold in the barn. We kin spare some blankets, and yer more than welcome to take yer meals with us.”

  “We’re obliged,” said Wes. “We’ll make do in the barn, but we’ll accept your offer of meals. We can each afford to pay you fifty dollars for use of the barn, hay for the horses, and for feeding us through the storm.”

  “That’s generous,” Jubal said, a grin on his craggy face. “Thunderation, fer that kind of money, you kin sleep in the house. Seth an’ Luke kin sleep in the barn.”

  “I ain’t sleepin’ in no barn,” said Seth. “Not even if you whup me.”

  “Me neither,” Luke said with a snarl.

  “You ungrateful whelps,” Jubal shouted, “you’ll do what I tell you.”

  “We’re only asking to stay in the barn,” said Wes, “and that’s what we aim to do. We accept your offer of meals, and I’d like some food for my dog, but we expect no more.”

  “Matilda,” Jubal shouted, “fix up a mess of beef for Stone’s dog.”

  “The hunnert dollars don’t include feedin’ no hound,” said Luke.

  “I say it does,” Jubal said, his hard eyes on Luke.

  Matilda brought a tin pail in which there was a generous portion of beef, and without a word passed it to Wes. He took it, nodding to her, and got to his feet.

  “I reckon we’ll get on to the barn before the storm gets any worse,” said Wes.

  “I ain’t seen no gold,” Seth said.

  “You won‘t,” said Wes, looking him in the eye. “It goes to Jubal, and he’ll get it before we ride out.”

  Jubal laughed, enjoying the rebuttal. Wes and El Lobo made their way into the hall and to the front door. They could still hear Jubal laughing as they closed the door behind them. The storm had become more intense and snow had begun in earnest. Empty waited in the barn, wolfing down the beef Matilda had given Wes.

  “I no stay in that house,” El Lobo said. “Not if they pay me.”

  “I have the same feeling,” said Wes. “I’m not sure about Jubal, but those coyotes he calls his sons would slit our throats for a hell of a lot less than a hundred dollars.”

  “Before we go, they come,” El Lobo said.

  “I expect they will,” said Wes, “but with Empty on watch, there’s no way they’ll take us by surprise. Trouble is, we’ll likely have to kill the pair of them, and storm or not, we can’t remain here.”

  In the house, Wes and El Lobo were the sole topic of conversation.

  “In Salt Lake,” Seth said, “their guns, saddles, an’ horses will bring nigh a thousand in gold coin.”

  “You talk like a fool,” said Luke. “They offer to pay a hunnert, that means they got plenty more. When that storm gits to roarin’ strong enough, we kin sneak down to the barn an’ slit their throats. Then we git their gold, their guns, saddles, an’ horses all.”

  “You heathen varmints,” Jubal roared, “ain’t my Christian teachin’ learnt you nothin‘? You don’t kill nobody in my house or barn, without it bein’ my responsibility, an’ the Good Book forbids killin’.”

  Luke laughed. “Sorry, Pap. We keep fergettin’ you’re a godly man. We’ll wait fer ‘em to ride out. Then we’ll bushwhack ’em. We still gotta share with you?”

  “You know better than to ask,” Jubal said. “I git half.”

  Dawn came, but it was little better than twilight. Heavy gray storm clouds hung low and the wind still howled out of the west, bearing swirling white sheets of snow. Wes and El Lobo found shovels in the barn and managed to clear themselves a path to the house for breakfast. There was ham, fried potatoes, and hot biscuits.

  “Ain’t much variety this time of year,” said Jubal, “but what we got, there’s plenty of it. Dig in. Mary, Matilda, one of you bring out that jug of sorghum.”

  El Lobo had never tasted sorghum molasses before, but with hot biscuits he decided he liked it. Wes had returned the tin pail from the night before. Without being told, Matilda had prepared Empty a breakfast of ham and biscuits. Seth and Luke had been silent during the meal. Finished, they got up and left the room.

  “You gents is welcome to stay here in the house, before the fire,” Jubal said.

  “We’re obliged,” said Wes, “but I got this grub for my dog. We had to dig our way out of the barn, and if we stay out too long, we’ll have to dig our way back in.”

  Jubal laughed. “I kin appreciate that. The worst of the storm ain’t hit us yet.”

  Returning to the barn, Wes and El Lobo took the shovels, confident they would need them later. El Lobo, saying nothing, pointed to the new-fallen snow in which there were two sets of tracks. Before they could enter the barn, there was a screech of pain and an angry growl from Empty. Drawing Colts, Wes and El Lobo stepped into the barn to find Seth with a hay fork in his hands. He was advancing toward Empty, who refused to yield.

  “Drop the hay fork,” Wes said. “Drop it, or I’ll drop you.”

  “You’d shoot a man over a damn hound?” Seth said, turning on Wes.

  “I would,” said Wes. “Especially if the poor excuse for a man happened to be you.”

  “He bit me,” Seth said. “Didn’t he bite me, Luke?”

  “Yeah,” said Luke, refusing to look at Wes.

  “You shouldn’t have bothered our saddles or saddlebags,” said Wes. “Have a look at them, El Lobo.”

  El Lobo did so, nodding to Wes. Their saddlebags had been tampered with.

  “We ain’t took nothin‘,” Seth said angrily.

  Without warning, he started to hurl the hay fork at Wes, but Wes was prepared. His Colt spoke once and the wooden handle of the hay fork seemed to explode in Seth’s hands. He stood there staring stupidly at the jagged remains of the handle. Holstering his Colt, Wes spoke, his voice as cold as the wind that howled around the eaves of the barn.

  “I never warn a man more than once. If I ever again catch either of you with your hands where they don’t belong, I’ll kill you. And that includes harming my dog. Get out of here, both of you.”

  “We ain’t done with you,” Luke said.

  “Come on, when you’re ready,” said Wes coldly.

  Sullenly they left the barn and Wes closed the door. When Seth and Luke entered the house, they found Jubal waiting for them. His eyes on the torn leg of Seth’s trousers, he spoke.

  “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

  “We went to fork down some hay for the horses,” Seth said defensively, “and that cur of a dog bit me.”

  “While you was forkin’ down hay for the horses,” said Jubal. “Nothin’ else?”

  All the while, Jubal was looking at Luke, who couldn’t meet his eyes. Luke exploded.

  “I didn’t lay a hand on nothin‘. Seth was messin’ around with Stone’s saddlebags, and the dog bit him. Seth was after him with a hay fork when Stone walked in on us.”

  “You fools,” Jubal roared, “you could both have been shot dead. You think Stone and Elfego carry a brace of pistols for looks? To rob them you’ll have to kill them first, and I forbid the violating of God’s laws on my property.”

  “I reckon God’s impressed with your Christian attitude,” said Seth. “Kill and rob, but don’t do it where I can see or hear. You old hypocrite.”

  When Jubal hit him, Seth slammed into a wall. The commotion brought Matilda and Mary on the run, and they stared in horrified fascination as the two men fought. Seth got to his feet, blood streaming from his nose, and began raining blows on Jubal. Luke stood with his back to the wall, staying out of it. Finally a crashing blow from Jubal’s big right fist drove Seth backward and his head slammed into the stone fire-place. He fell, lying with one hand in the fire, until Luke dragged him away. Catching his breath, Jubal spoke.

  “I put up with a lot from you an’ him. The Good Book says ‘Honor thy father an’ mother,’ an’ he just violated that law. You don’t call your daddy a hypocrite an’ not pay fer it.”

  “But he ain’t no different from you,” Luke proteste
d. “The Good Book says if you break one law, you broke ‘em all.”

  “Don’t talk back to me, you young whelp. Git him out of my sight, an’ the both of you stay out of the barn.”

  Seth was on hands and knees and Luke helped him to his feet. The two of them went down the hall to the room they shared, closing the door behind them. Seth stumbled to the bed, sat down, and only then did he speak.

  “I ain’t takin’ nothin’ else from him. I say when we bushwhack Stone and Elfego, we just ride on to California. You game?”

  “I dunno,” said Luke. “Pap’s always told us what to do an’ what not to do.”

  “He ain’t tellin’ me what to do no more,” Seth said. “Fer now, I’ll keep my peace, but I aim to leave here with a stake.”

  After three days, the storm began to blow itself out. When Wes and El Lobo went to breakfast, Wes handed Jubal five double eagles.

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere yet,” Jubal said. “There’ll be drifts in these mountains that’s taller than a man on horseback.”

  “We know that,” said Wes, “but if we wait too long, there’ll be another storm, with more snow.”

  “Give ‘er a couple more days,” Jubal said.

  But Wes and El Lobo, uneasy with the circumstances, wanted to move on. Only the truth of Jubal’s words kept them there after the storm had gone. But finally, on the third day, when the sun crept out from behind diminishing clouds, they rode out. The snow was still drifted deep in arroyos and on the lee side of ridges where the sun didn’t often shine. Not until noon of that day did Seth and Luke prepare to follow Wes and El Lobo.

  “Don’t do nothin’ foolish,” Jubal said. “I’ll look fer you sometime tomorrow.”

  “Look fer us when you see us comin‘,” said Seth. “You ain’t contributin’ nothin’ but talk. We git all the dirty work, while you, with all your Good Book laws, take half. We do this our way, however long it takes.”

  They rode out, following the trail Wes and El Lobo had left. But Wes and El Lobo had not ridden far. Expecting pursuit, they had ridden not more than a dozen miles. There they had ridden in a circle, doubling back. They had taken refuge on a ridge from which much of their back trail was visible.

  “They come,” said El Lobo, pointing.

  For a moment, Wes didn’t see anything, for the white of the never-ending snow was blinding. Finally, when a cloud passed over the sun, he could see the tiny figures in the far distance, bobbing toward them.

  “We kill?” El Lobo asked hopefully.

  “It’s that or take their horses,” said Wes.

  “They go back for more horses,” El Lobo said. “Not be that far.”

  “I reckon,” said Wes. “We’ll have to decide pretty quick, before they discover we’re expecting them. They’ll be lookin’ for us to ride three times the distance we have.”

  “Sí,” El Lobo said. “They wait for dark.”

  “That’s what I figure,” said Wes. “We’ll just find out how much sand they have in the daylight.”

  “No ambush?”

  “No,” Wes said. “We’ll confront them, giving them more of a chance than they’d ever give us.”

  Wes and El Lobo rode on, paralleling their westward trail, until they reached a stand of evergreens that would protect them from being seen as their quarry approached.

  “Now,” said Wes, “we’ll wait until they’re within range of our Colts.”

  “Per‘ap they no fight,” El Lobo said. “We kill?”

  “They’ll fight,” said Wes. “Seth has no better sense. You saw him come after me with that hay fork. I’ll take him, and if Luke’s fool enough to back his play, you know what to do.”

  “Sí,” El Lobo said.

  “Maybe we better rest awhile,” Luke cautioned. “We git too close, an’ they can see us on their back trail.”

  “You fret like an old woman,” said Seth. “Them with half a day’s start, ain’t no way we’ll catch up to ‘em ’fore dark.”

  They rode on, and as they approached a stand of evergreens they were greeted by a cold voice speaking from cover.

  “That’s far enough,” Wes said. “Make your play.”

  “You got nothin’ agin us,” said Seth angrily.

  “We all know better than that,” Wes said. “You’ve been trailin’ us with bushwhacking on your minds. Now we aim to give you more of a chance than you’d have given us.”

  Wes said no more. He and El Lobo stepped out of the sheltering evergreens, walking toward Seth and Luke.

  “No,” Luke shouted.

  “Get ‘em,” said Seth with a snarl.

  He had a cocked Winchester in his hands, but his first shot went wild. There was no time for another as Wes fired once. The lead struck Seth in the chest, driving him from the saddle. Luke dropped his Winchester, raising his hands.

  “Get down,” Wes ordered. “You’re goin’ to tie him belly-down over his saddle and take him home. If you have ideas about followin’ us, don’t. Next time, we’ll gun you down on sight. Comprende?”

  “I ain’t follerin’ you no more,” said Luke.

  Wes and El Lobo watched as he roped Seth to his saddle. Mounting, Luke rode back the way they had come, leading Seth’s horse with its macabre burden.

  “Let’s ride,” Wes said. “We’re still a long way from Nevada.”

  Chapter 11

  Pioche, Nevada. January 15, 1885.

  Wes and El Lobo continued riding due west and watching their back trail, but could see no signs they were being pursued. While the land was desolate and water wasn’t always plentiful, there was enough, thanks to frequent snowfall. There was yet another storm, but of shorter duration, and they waited it out in an arroyo. Sundown was only minutes away when they came upon a crude sign reading PIOCHE NEV.

  “Well,” said Wes, “we’re finally out of Utah. Let’s see what Pioche has to offer.”

  But before they saw any evidence of a town, their attention was drawn to a distant arroyo by the rattle of gunfire.

  “Sounds like trouble,” Wes said. “Some poor soul may need help. Come on.”

  Topping a ridge, they found themselves looking down on what obviously was a mining endeavor. Mounds of earth were everywhere, and a sluice box had been set up to take full advantage of a fast-running creek. From behind one of the mounds of earth a single rifle responded to fire from numerous others beyond the creek. Even as Wes and El Lobo watched, distant horsemen—well out of range—were circling to trap the unfortunate defender in a cross fire. But he was no shorthorn with a Winchester, and there was a shout of anger as one of the besiegers was hit.

  “If the varmints get him in a cross fire, he won’t have a chance,” Wes said. “I think we’ll buy in and head off that bunch. There must be a dozen of the coyotes, and until we know what this is all about, that’s an unfair advantage.”

  El Lobo said nothing, and while he didn’t always agree, he respected Wes Stone’s feelings for what was fair. They unsheathed their Winchesters and prepared a reception for the half-dozen men who were riding to trap the lone defender. Wes and El Lobo began firing warning shots before the six were within range, hoping to discourage them, but it had the opposite effect. With angry shouts, the men dismounted, taking their Winchesters. Using available cover, they began advancing.

  “Hold your fire until they’re within range,” said Wes. “If they won’t have it any other way, we’ll oblige them. The sagebrush they’re using for cover won’t stop a Winchester slug.”

  The lone defender, aware of the unexpected support, intensified his efforts, and there was a distant shout of pain. Another of the attackers had been hit. Those who seemed determined to catch him in a cross fire continued advancing, and when they were well within range, Wes and El Lobo began firing. The attackers returned the fire, but firing uphill, found themselves at a disadvantage. Two of them were hit, and when the others ran for their horses, El Lobo wounded a third. Reaching their horses, with a comrade helping the wounded man, they quit
the fight.

  “We’ll ride around and get behind that bunch raising so much hell,” Wes said. “They’re needin’ a dose of their own medicine.”

  Mounting their horses, Wes and El Lobo followed the ridge. Crossing the creek above the scene of battle, they circled in behind the attackers. Dismounting, they began throwing lead all around the four men who remained, wounding two of them.

  “Hold your fire,” said Wes. “We’ll let them run, if they’ve had enough.”

  The two wounded men sat slumped in their saddles, their horses being led by their companions. Out of range, they reined up and one of those who hadn’t been hit shouted a warning.

  “You hombres doin’ the shootin’ has just bought yourselves a mess of trouble. Don’t let the sun set on you in Pioche.”

  They rode away. Wes and El Lobo rode along the creek, seeking the lone rifleman who had fought so valiantly. They were unprepared for the dirt-smudged figure who stepped out from behind a huge pile of earth. She wasn’t more than twenty-one or -two, with blond hair and blue eyes. Her flop hat had a hole in the crown, her flannel shirt had patches on the elbows, and the brown of her jeans had faded to almost white. Rough-out, run-over boots completed her unpretentious attire. Wes and El Lobo had returned their Winchesters to saddle boots, and reined up.

  “You had to be strangers,” she said. “Nobody in Pioche would lift a hand.”

  “I’m Wes Stone, and my amigo is El Lobo,” said Wes. “The fight seemed a mite one-sided. What’s it about?”

  “Claim jumping,” she said. “I’m Amanda McCall. My husband Jim and me made a small strike here on Pioche Creek, in a place nobody believed there was gold. Brandon Starke, who controls Pioche, sent a gunman after Jim. He then had Jim convicted by a miner’s court, and he’s waiting in jail to be hanged. I don’t know why I bothered trying to defend our holdings. The gold’s playing out.”