Six Gun Justice (12 page)

“Murdock! You and your men come on out and face me if you’re a man.”

There was silence, with only the twittering of a few birds near by. He saw Hector move further off to the side, making it harder for them to sight in on two targets so close together. The seconds raced by on fleeting wings, but to Jake they seemed to drag along at a snail’s pace.

The silence of the first few seconds was shattered suddenly as a shot clipped the brim of Jake’s hat, giving it a gentle tug as the bullet missed him by inches. He had seen the flash from the muzzle, just to the right of the batwings, and the glint of a gun peeping over the top. His hand flashed to his dragoon, the pistol leaping into his hand, flame blazing from the end of his revolver, a return answer to the bullet that had sent his hat sailing into the street. Everything speeded up from that moment, leaving little time for thinking, only action. He did not think he had hit his assailant, but he saw a small chunk of wood from the top of one of the batwings, as he dove for cover.

He quickly ran for the north corner of the saloon, while Hector ran for the south corner. Another shot rang out, just as he made it to the safety of the building, the bullet clipping the heel of his boot, almost causing him to lose his balance. He heard firing from the direction Hector had gone, but he rolled around the corner out of the line of fire, and did not know if the shot had come from his friend, or from one of Murdock’s men. He supposed it had come from Hector, since Murdock and his men were inside the saloon.

He eased his head around the corner, and another bullet whistled over his head, the breeze of its passing a cool streak across his scalp. It had been very close. He jerked his head back, so that the next bullet clipped the edge of the wood where his head had been. He had to get a bead on the one who was doing the shooting, and the only way he could do that was to get to the store.

His experiences in the Confederacy had taught him that a running man was one of the hardest targets to hit. He gave little thought from that moment on, but gathered his legs under him and pushed off, making a run for the storefront’s far side. He could hear the buzz of bullets, like bees buzzing close to his face, as he sprinted for his goal. He was brought up short by the side of the store, rolling around the corner to safety. Circling around the building, he entered the back door, which led through Eli’s living quarters and on through the store.

Eli’s wife, Dorothy, was cowering behind a bureau, her hands over her ears. It was evident that she was frightened out of her wits by all the gunfire, and he couldn’t blame her. This was no place to be when bullets were flying, because they were no respecter of persons, either innocents, or combatants.

“Sorry ma’am,” Jake said apologetically. “Just stay low and you won’t get hurt. This will be over in a bit.”

“Jake? Jake Killman? Eli told me you were back. What’s this all about?” she asked in a frightened voice, as she started to rise from her hiding place.

“I’m afraid it’s a showdown between Murdock and myself. I’m sorry you and Eli had to get dragged into the middle of the fight.”

“Why can’t men just reason things out, like us women,” she mumbled, sitting back in the corner, where the bureau was pushed against the wall.

He smiled sardonically, shaking his head at her query. He had no answer for her, at least not one that she would understand. He felt sorry for her, for the fear this shooting caused, wishing he could offer some consolation, but he could think of none. She was just one of the innocents caught up in this small war.

He touched his finger to his brow, and quickly ran for the front of the store, passing Eli on the way, who was hiding behind a barrel with axe, and pick handles in it. At the front door, he peeped through the glass window. He could see nothing of Hector at first, then he saw his crumpled figure lying on the ground at the corner of the saloon. Hector had been shot and Jake had no way of knowing if he was dead or just wounded.

He saw a gunman stick his head around the batwing, cautiously looking for a target. His hand moved rapidly, lining up the head in the sights of his dragoon. He squeezed off a shot gently and watched the face disappear, in a spray of blood. One down, two to go he thought. He waited patiently for something to happen, but the minutes raced by, and still no sign of anyone else. He figured Murdock must be alone, or at the least one of his henchmen might be left.

Finally he exposed himself by pushing his left arm around the corner, but nothing happened. He stuck his head out a bit and still nothing happened. Venturing further, he stepped cautiously out the door, gun ready for action, but still nothing.

He ran across the street to where Hector had fallen and bent to take his head in his arms. When his eyes fluttered open, Hector looked up at him, a slight grin twisting his mouth but quickly turned to a grimace that ended in a sudden convulsion, as his head rolled to the side, and his staring eyes looking at the clouded sky, unable to see.

Jake picked up the body and carried it inside the saloon, laying it gently on one of the tables. He knew there would not be anyone waiting for him there. Murdock and his gunman had evidently escaped unseen, shooting Mendoza in the process. They had evidently caught him from behind, since the bullet had entered his back, not the front. One of them, probably Murdock’s man, had slipped out the back of the saloon, and come up behind him, while Murdock held Mike Stoler inside, then they both had taken flight, while he had been making his way through the store. This was the way he had it figured, but with the death of Hector, only Mike could supply the answers.

He took one last look at the body lying on the table, brushed his hand across the staring eyes, and turned to find Stoler tied to one of the chairs. He stepped across to him and untied his friend, removing the kerchief that was stuffed in his mouth.

“Sorry Jake,” he sputtered. “They tied me up so I could interfere.”

“Did you get a line on which way they might have headed?” Jake asked.

“Nope. They just went out the back door, and then I heard a shot. That must have been when they killed this fellow. Isn’t that Jose Catano’s Segundo?”

“Yep,” he said in a low voice. “I’d appreciate it if you would get in touch with Catano, and let him know. I think he will probably be shaken by the death of his friend and long time employee.”

Stoler nodded solemnly, and asked, “What do you aim to do now?”

“I’m going after Murdock, this will never be over until he’s dead. My wife is at Catano’s place Mike. Would you tell her I went after Murdock. I’d appreciate it. Tell her I have to stop him once and for all, or he will only come back to haunt us later.”

Stoler nodded, and watched him push through the batwings. He retrieved his hat, gathered his mount and walked him in a large circle around the settlement, looking for some sign of Murdock’s trail. He did not know the tracks of Murdock’s horse, but he sure as hell knew the left shoe build up on the hoof of his companion. He was the man who had kept him and Sarah pinned in the cave a few days before. He didn’t know his name, but he knew the hoof print.

CHAPTER X

The Showdown

When he found the tracks, he was surprised to find they did not lead north toward the ranch, but off to the southwest, toward the canyon country. He followed the tracks of the horse with a small triangle notch in the left front right shoe and the built up rear shoe for two miles. When he was sure the two men would not turn back toward Murdock’s ranch, he put his horse in a mile eating lope, following in the general direction the two men had taken.

An hour later he took out the brass telescope, and peered through it at the country in front of him. The only thing he could see moving was a few head of stray cattle and a couple of deer. Murdock and his henchman had evidently gained enough of a head start to leave him far behind. He replaced the scope and touched spurs to his horse, and kept his horse at fast pace as he watched diligently for the tracks he was following. From their direction, he figured they would wind up at Black Canyon Trading Post if they kept riding in the same direction the tracks were taking. It was a general store, and a place that traded with the Navajos, which wandered through, and on some occasions a few Apaches. It was a saloon of sorts; a place where bandits had been known to hole up in the past. But that had been years ago, when the country was virtually unsettled.

Some time back in the late 50s the forming of the Arizona Rangers had cleaned out the outlaws at Black Canyon and most of them had left the Mogollan Rim country about the same time. He had only ventured into the country a few short years after, but there had still been a few rustlers who had hung on, making a meager existence from stealing cattle from the ranches along the rim. Most of them had been caught and hanged and the rest had decided it was extremely unhealthy to remain in the rim country.

Jake had his suspicions that Murdock had been one of the rustlers that had held on and make a place for himself by homesteading a place and using it to run stolen cattle through. This was just supposition on his part, which he had never voiced to anyone. For the last years before he had gone away to the war, Murdock had steered clear of his ranch, making offers to buy him out on a couple of occasions, but nothing more.

He was a good forty miles from Black Canyon when dark overtook him, forcing him to halt for the night. He could not see the tracks in the dark, and he didn’t want to lose it, and maybe have to backtrack to pick up the trail again. It would not do him any good to have his horse step in a gopher, or prairie dog hole either. It was hard for him to use reason, when his only thoughts were to run Murdock and his gunman to ground and end this. He wanted to get on with his life, make up for all the lost time with his wife, and settle down to raising cows and kids.

He tethered his horse on a long lead so the animal could graze. He made his camp near a small stream that ran down from the high country. The land was getting more arid as he dropped from the higher climes, taking on more of the aspects of the desert. There were now saguaro cactus, looking like lonely sentinels standing guard over an encampment, or perhaps a buried treasure, dotting the landscape across which he rode.

To the south of him was Phoenix, a cattle town of some size, built on the edge of the desert. It was large enough, offering the comforts not to be found in most places. It was a very fast growing place, and as a crossroads to the east, was a gathering place for the riff raff that stopped there, as well as the honest ranchers that came into town to buy their supplies.

There were places to gamble, drink, and one could find women of the night. It was a place to relax after weeks of hard work on a ranch, and a collection point for many travelers, passing through to California in search of a better life, or perhaps to Mexico, looking for something they could not describe, but ever searching for. The land surrounding Phoenix was a hard land, and it took hard men to carve out a place in its wilderness and desert region, but it was being done.

Small settlements were beginning to pop up here and there, and men of strong fortitude fought against the severity of the arid land to make a living. Some would go broke, and wander on in search of an impossible dream, but others with a will to sink roots would stay and fight for a place in this country. That was the kind of man Jake Killman was. A man who would sink his roots, fight for his right to live on the land and wrest a living from it.

Lying in his sugan, he tried to reason what Murdock was up to. He knew he had depleted the ranks of his gunmen, knew he would have to recruit more men and join with the men he probably had in reserve. Maybe he was headed for Phoenix on a recruiting foray, or maybe for Wickenburg. Either place had an abundance of hard cases, ready to hire their guns without asking too many questions.

He drifted into a light sleep, his senses alert to anything that moved in the night, thinking of the job ahead of him and wondering further, why Murdock might have headed in this direction. Was he going to meet hired guns he kept in reserve? What was in his mind? Would he return to Strawberry to send more gunmen to do his killing? The last thought was almost a certainty. He had too much invested in his ranch to abandon it. His last thoughts before drifting off were of Sarah, of the womanly smell of her, and the soft warmth of her in his arms at night.

He awoke during the night, unable to sleep any more, because of the wound in his arm. It had definitely been a long day, but he felt secure Sarah’s being safe. He sat smoking a cigarette, watching the glow of the fiery tip, waiting for the light to come. It was not cold now, the snow had long gone, and the warmth of summer was on the land. It was a beautiful time of year, but at this moment, he had no appreciation for such things. He could only think of Murdock; hunting him down, and ending the feud.

As soon as the sky had lightened enough for him to distinguish the tracks, he was in the saddle, bending low to the ground to see the faint trail he followed. The notched shoe was plain enough to see, but the countryside was turning to rock as he rode, making his task harder, and harder. A couple of after breaking camp, it disappeared altogether, among the rocky crags east of Black Rock. He was disappointed at the loss of the trail, but he figured it was ultimately leading him to the Black Rock Trading Post.

He rode purposefully now, intent on reaching his destination quickly; before Murdock could move on to some other place, or just possibly contact the rest of his gang of gunnies. The last thought sobered him a bit, giving him pause to wonder why he had not hightailed it to where they were camped. Could it be that they were encamped near Black Rock, maybe some place close to Black Rock Butte, or could it be that he really had depleted his henchmen to the point that he had to recruit? There were surely enough places for hideout among the canyons and arroyos under that tall monolith, Black Rock Butte.