Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles Page 4

  “What’ll you have, gents?” the bartender asked.

  “What belongs to us,” Wes said, seizing the startled bartender by his shirtfront.

  “Holdup!” the bartender squawked before his wind was cut off.

  Suddenly a door burst open and the four bouncers appeared. But El Lobo had vaulted across the bar and had found their gunbelts beneath it. Quickly he tossed Wes his gunbelt, and drawing one of the Colts, he faced the four men.

  “That’s far enough,” said Wes. “I can drop all of you before you can get to me. This is no holdup. We’re taking the weapons you took from us.”

  El Lobo had reached the door, and drawing one of his Colts, held the four at bay until Wes joined him.

  “Don’t get any ideas about following us,” Wes said. “We owe you, and you won’t like the way we pay our debts.”

  Quickly Wes and El Lobo backed into the covering darkness and were gone.

  Chapter 2

  St. Louis. October 3, 1884.

  After the destruction of the Sandlin gang in Mexico, certain men had escaped across the border, taking positions within the Dragon empire in the United States. One of these men was Rance Stringfield, along with his lieutenant, Turk Corbin. They had established an office in a rundown warehouse near the waterfront, and from there it had been Stringfield who had dispatched the two gunmen to ambush Wes and El Lobo aboard the steamboat. Corbin had just come from the telegraph office, and the message he brought didn’t please Stringfield.

  “Damn it,” Stringfield growled, “I tried to tell them two men couldn’t do the job. Not after what this pair of pistoleros did to us in Mexico.”

  “The gunmen you sent after them wasn’t exactly wooly lambs,” said Corbin. “They had reputations as killers.”

  “Reputation means nothing,” Stringfield said. “It’s results that count. Use the code and wire our contact in New Orleans. I want these El Diablo Pistolas dead. None of us are safe as long as they’re alive.”

  “I can agree with that,” said Corbin. “It seems they had some kind of grudge against us in Mexico, but why are they after us north of the border?”

  “The government has contacted them,” Stringfield said. “I received word from one of our people in Washington that some sort of meeting was taking place here. But I was unable to get any details until it was over. I had no idea we were dealing with the pair of young hellions that ran us out of Mexico, until the day they left for New Orleans. Then I had to choose some gunmen in a hurry. Poor choice on my part.”

  “What do I tell New Orleans?” Corbin asked.

  “Tell them this pair must be done away with,” said Stringfield. “The Anglo travels with a dog, and his companion is an Indian. Use as many men as it takes, and if they leave New Orleans, they are to be pursued and eliminated.”

  “Why do you suppose they went to New Orleans?” Corbin asked.

  “One of the more vulnerable mints is there,” said Stringfield, “and it’s a port city. The Treasury knows what’s happening, but they haven’t been able to break our security. That’s what these young gunmen have been enlisted to do, and they’ve been sent to the nearest trouble spot. Now send that telegram.”

  After freeing themselves and taking their weapons, Wes and El Lobo started back to their boardinghouse. Wes had left Empty at the livery with their horses, and they went there first.

  “The perro no like saloons,” said El Lobo. “He smarter than us.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Wes said. “I can’t see that we accomplished anything, except gettin’ ourselves all skinned up.”

  They reached the boardinghouse without seeing anyone. Their room was in the back of the house, with an outside entrance, and they entered quietly. Empty took his place beneath the window, and while El Lobo lighted the lamp, Wes locked and bolted the door. He then unbuckled his gunbelt, removed his hat, and sat down on the bed. Suddenly Empty was on his feet, growling deep in his throat. El Lobo had already drawn and cocked one of his Colts and stood aside from the window, waiting. Wes remained where he was, lest his movement be noticed. The window blind had been drawn, and while they could see nothing, their shadows could be seen from outside. Neither man moved until Empty relaxed and lay down beneath the window.

  “Somebody look for us,” said El Lobo.

  “We’ll have to be careful when we leave here tomorrow,” Wes said. “I reckon by now they know the ambush on the steamboat fell through, but I don’t see how they got after us so soon.”

  “Per‘ap they have men here,” said El Lobo.

  “That’s possible,” Wes said. “From what Silver told us, this town could be crawling with gunmen just waiting for us. After that beating we took in the saloon, and after our escape, we may not be strangers here anymore. I reckon it’s time we had a look at that double eagle I got from the saloon.”

  Wes removed the coin from his shirt pocket and with his knife began scraping the surface. Slowly the gold disappeared, exposing base metal.

  “Malo,” said El Lobo.

  “Yes,” Wes agreed, “but about what we expected. All we’ve done is prove the truth of what Silver told us. Owners of saloons and gambling houses are just pawns, and there’s no way we can get to the Golden Dragon through them, unless we can find somebody who is willing to talk.”

  “They be afraid,” said El Lobo.

  “They have every reason to be,” Wes said. “Besides, what do they have to lose? Their payouts are in counterfeit, while the coin they take in is genuine. Even if the house take is only twenty percent, it’s all profit.”

  “What we do now?” El Lobo asked.

  “Probably the worst thing we could do,” said Wes. “Silver gave us the names of directors of the three mints in question. Here in New Orleans, it’s Oliver Reed, and we know where he lives. Tomorrow being Sunday, I think we’ll call on Reed and find out where he stands, if we can. It won’t be easy, since we can’t identify ourselves as agents for the Treasury. If he’s honest, he may think we’re part of the Dragon’s outfit.”

  Wes and El Lobo rode for several miles through a New Orleans residential district before finding the small house where Oliver Reed lived. They looped the reins of their horses through a picket fence and made their way to the front door. Their knock was answered by an elderly lady with graying hair. She eyed them curiously, but when her eyes reached their guns, her face went white and she slammed the door.

  “Go away,” she cried. “Leave us alone.”

  “Ma‘am,” said Wes, “we mean you no harm. We only want to speak with Mr. Reed.”

  “Martha,” a voice from inside said, “I’ll talk to them.”

  The door opened and Reed, a heavyset man in spectacles, stood there. He spoke.

  “Who are you, and what do you want of me?”

  “It’s best you don’t know who we are, or where we’re from,” Wes said. “What you don’t know, you can’t tell. Does this mean anything to you?”

  Wes extended his hand, and in the palm lay one of the Golden Dragon coins.

  “I’ve told you before,” said Reed angrily, “I want no part of your illegal schemes.”

  He started to slam the door, but Wes had his foot in it.

  “It’s good to hear you say that, sir,” Wes said. “I told you we mean you no harm, and while we can’t identify ourselves, we’re on your side. We must find a member of the gang who can be made to talk.”

  “I know nothing about them,” Reed said shakily, “and I don’t want to know. They’ve talked to me ... threatened me ... three times, and I ...”

  Suddenly the angry bark of a rifle broke the Sunday morning stillness. Narrowly missing Wes, a slug ripped into the door just inches from Reed’s head. Wes drove his shoulder into the door and Reed stumbled backward, allowing Wes and El Lobo into the house. El Lobo kicked the door shut just as more slugs slammed into it. A second rifle had opened up, but by the time Wes and El Lobo reached a front window with drawn Colts, the firing had ceased.

  “No
w are you convinced we’re not part of the gang?” Wes asked.

  “I ... I suppose so,” said Reed, struggling to his feet.

  Martha Reed sat on a sofa, her face buried in her hands, but not for long. Suddenly she was on her feet, and El Lobo being the closest, flung herself at him.

  “Damn you,” she cried. “Damn both of you for coming here. Next time, they’ll murder us.”

  It was Oliver Reed who restrained the frantic woman.

  “Martha,” said Reed, “they weren’t shooting at us.”

  “No,” Wes said, “because you’re no danger to them. They’re after us, and you’ve told us where you stand, so we won’t bother you again. But we do need to ask you a question about the mint here in New Orleans.”

  “Ask then,” said Reed. “Perhaps I’ll answer and perhaps I won’t. It depends entirely on the question: ‘

  “You have two men—DeShazo and Morgan—who are in charge of security, and these men see to getting the newly minted coins to various banks,” Wes said. “How far can you trust these men? Would either or both of them sell out, if the reward was great enough?”

  “I ... I don’t know,” said Reed. “They’re family men, with responsible positions, and I’ve no reason not to trust them. So I can’t answer your question. Now will you please go?”

  “We’ll go,” Wes said, “and do an investigation of our own. Sorry that we had to bust in with them shooting at us, but there was no cover.”

  El Lobo eased the door open a little, then closed it.

  “There be hombres watching,” said El Lobo.

  “Likely the neighbors,” Wes said. “Reed?”

  Ignoring the frantic cries of his wife, Oliver Reed opened the door.

  “It’s the neighbors,” said Reed. “Nobody else.”

  Without a word, Wes stepped out the door, El Lobo following. Empty was barking at the half-dozen curious men who stood across the street. Ignoring them, Wes and El Lobo mounted their horses and rode away. Empty followed, satisfied they were leaving the strangers behind. Before they reached the livery, Wes reined up. El Lobo looked at him questioningly.

  “Something about the Reeds is bothering me,” said Wes. “I think we’ll pay a visit to Morgan and DeShazo. Morgan first, because he’s closest.”

  “Do you think they believed us?” Martha Reed asked after Wes and El Lobo had gone.

  “I don’t know,” said Reed. “You were convincing enough, but I’d better warn Morgan and DeShazo. I think we’d be wise to hold up any further distribution until these young troublemakers are out of the way.”

  “They’d be out of the way now,” Martha said shortly, “if you hadn’t allowed them to shove their way in.”

  Reed said nothing. Taking his hat, he left by the kitchen door and went to the stable. Quickly he harnessed his team to a buckboard and drove away.

  Wes and El Lobo found the Morgan house near a small church, and behind the meeting house was a cemetery. Sunday services were over, and a high hedge between church property and the Morgan house provided cover. Wes and El Lobo dismounted, taking up positions behind the hedge.

  “What we look for?” El Lobo asked.

  “We’re looking for Oliver Reed,” said Wes, “and here he comes.”

  Reed reined up his team, stepped down, and hurried to the house. He knocked, the door was opened, and he entered. He was there only a few minutes. Returning to his buckboard, he drove away.

  “We follow?” El Lobo asked.

  “No,” said Wes. “He’s on his way to DeShazo’s.”

  “He lie to us,” El Lobo said.

  “They were pretty convincing,” said Wes, “but I think Reed’s neck-deep in this. Otherwise, why would he be calling on Morgan and DeShazo? I told Reed we needed to capture a member of the gang who could be made to talk. I reckon he’s not all that sure of Morgan and DeShazo. I think we need to get word to Silver. Let’s ride.”

  But before they could mount their horses, Empty growled a warning.

  “Get down,” Wes warned. “We may have been discovered.”

  They were barely in time. Empty fought his way through the hedge as three rifles cut loose, burning the air with deadly fire. Slugs struck gravestones, screaming away, only to be followed by another fusillade.

  “Damn,” said Wes, “they’re on the other side of the cemetery, firing through the hedge. We need our Winchesters.”

  But their Winchesters were in their saddle boots and the horses, made skittish by the gunfire, were out of reach. They would have to make do with their Colts. El Lobo already had the idea, for he had begun inching his way toward their attackers, using the mounded graves and headstones for cover. While the gunmen they sought fired from behind the hedge, there were puffs of smoke, providing targets of sorts. Once Wes and El Lobo were within range, they cut loose, firing into the hedge below the drifting powdersmoke. Their efforts were rewarded with angry curses from their attackers and cries of pain. Suddenly, as Wes and El Lobo stepped up the attack, the firing from the bushwhackers ceased. There was a sound of retreating horses.

  “They’re gone,” said Wes, “and we’d better vamoose. After all this shooting, somebody will have the law here.”

  Quickly they mounted their horses. Using the little church for cover, they went between it and the thick hedge, pausing when they again heard hoofbeats. Half a dozen horsemen rode along the street. Galloping along the opposite side of the church, they headed for the cemetery. Quickly, unseen, Wes and El Lobo trotted their horses toward the street until they were safely away. Empty had been waiting, and caught up to them.

  “Now,” Wes said, “let’s find a telegraph office.”

  “Sí,” said El Lobo, “if we don’t get shot dead.”

  “We’ll have to risk that,” Wes said. “Let’s just hope the Dragon forces don’t break the code Silver gave us. I wonder if the telegraph offices are open on Sunday?”

  They rode through the quiet streets, and during their search for the telegraph office, Wes spotted a Union soldier coming out of a café. There were silver captain‘s bars on the epaulets of the soldier’s blue coat, and as he proceeded along the boardwalk, Wes and El Lobo caught up to him.

  “Captain,” Wes said, reining up.

  “I am Captain Powers,” said the military man. “What do you want of me?”

  “Is there a military outpost here” Wes asked.

  “There is,” said Powers. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you have the telegraph?” Wes asked.

  “Yes,” said Powers, “but it’s not for civilian use, except in extreme emergencies.”

  “We have such an emergency,” Wes said. “Here’s some identification.”

  He presented the coded card Silver had given him, along with the watch that Silver had once given Nathan Stone. Powers looked at the card first and then snapped open the engraved silver cover of the watch case. Inside was the great seal of the United States, and beneath it, OFFICE OF THE ATTORNEY GENERAL.

  “I’ve seen that watch before,” said Powers.

  “It belonged to my father,” Wes said. “We are representing the man who gave him the watch, and we must reach him by telegraph today.”

  “Come with me,” said Powers. “We only have a six-man outpost, and our telegrapher’s not here. Do you read Morse?”

  “I do,” Wes said. “I can send and receive. My name is Wes Stone, and my amigo is El Lobo. We’re also known as the El Diablo Pistolas.”

  “By God,” said Powers, “you’re the hombres who wiped out that bunch of outlaws in Mexico. We intercepted some of your telegrams.”

  “We are,” Wes said, “but that’s all I can tell you. Do you have a code for your outpost that won’t give away your location?”

  “We do,” said Powers.

  “Good,” Wes said. “It may be important for persons receiving this telegram to know we are at a federal outpost.”

  The military headquarters consisted of three rooms in one side of an office building. A sergean
t sat behind a desk. He stood and saluted as Captain Powers entered.

  “As you were, sergeant,” said Powers. “We have business with the telegraph, and are not to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.

  The small room was bare, except for three chairs and a table upon which the instrument sat. Beside it were pencils and a supply of yellow paper for the transcribing of incoming messages.

  “Go ahead,” Powers said. “Sign off with thirty-four.”

  Wes drew up a chair, tapped in the proper information, and asked for permission to send his message. The instrument was silent for a moment and then began to chatter. Permission had been granted. Carefully, Wes sent the coded message that would tell Silver they were in New Orleans and what they had discovered. The message was simple. It read “Two one one zero stop.” Wes signed off with thirty-four. The telegraph instrument was silent for a moment and then began to chatter. The message had been received.

  “Now what?” Captain Powers asked.

  “We wait,” said Wes. “This being federal business, there may be a message for you.”

  Washington, D.C. October 13,1884.

  “A strange message, sir,” said an aide who brought the telegram to Bryan Silver. “Will there be a reply?”

  “If there is,” Silver replied, “I’ll send it.”

  The code was simple but meaningless to one who had not been told the key words. The two told Silver the number which appeared on the reverse side of the Golden Dragon coins. The one referred to the first of the three mints, in New Orleans, while the second one was a code word for the mint’s director. The zero meant that nothing had been done. The next move belonged to Silver, and taking note of the location, he composed a message directly to Captain Powers. It read: