Incident on the Chisholm Trail

Chapter 7

As he trotted along the trail north, Abe Goldman was feeling pretty pleased with himself. He had a handsome tip in his pocket, his time was being paid for by Pinkerton’s and he was still alive and breathing. It was a glorious day into the bargain. He wasn’t,  in general, one for admiring nature and appreciating the great outdoors, but even the most inveterate city-dweller could not have failed to notice how grand the world was looking out in the wilds that day.

     Goldman’s pleasure in the simple joys of the blue sky and fluffy white clouds which scudded across it, did not last long. He had been struck by an idea and was cursing himself for a fool for not having considered this new scheme before. Why, he had been throwing money away, hand over fist! He was quite accustomed to selling his goods twice, once to the man paying his salary and often enough to the fellow who was most affected by the information which he had gathered. He had just a few hours earlier pulled this familiar stunt. But why should he stop there? Surely, the owner of the ‘Barred Os’ might also pay to be warned of the impending arrival of a lynch mob at his ranch?

     Mind, it would be a delicate business, extracting the cash without giving too much away in advance. After all, if he simply told Dave Carson that a bunch of angry cattle ranchers were heading his way, then he would have given the man all the information he needed and would be unlikely to earn a cent.  On the other hand, he couldn’t see any shrewd businessman like Carson handing over money for a pig in a poke. He would have to let the man know that he knew all about his racket and could tip him the wink about some unspecified threat now facing him. It would need careful handling, because if he weren’t careful, he might come across in the character of a blackmailer trying to put the bite on somebody. He wouldn’t want anybody starting to play rough.

* * *

     Dan moved as fast as he dared along the narrow path which led down from the bluff. He was expecting at any moment to catch a bullet in his back. It was a fair bet that those men he had used for skittles would be feeling a mite ticked off with him and were all too liable to shoot him without warning.

     The way was too steep and the footing uncertain for him to ride and so the boy was compelled to lead his horse along at an agonizingly slow pace. At last, he turned a sharp bend and was relieved to find that they were almost at the foot of the hill. All that remained was to thread a way through a pile of broken rock and small boulders and they would be back on level ground. It was when he reached the heaps of scree that he saw three riders cantering towards him.

     Four men had been directed by Fats to circle round the bluff and try to intercept the young man, if he was hoping to slip down and escape from the other side of the hill. As they left to follow their instructions, one of them, a man called Clinton Rodders, said, ‘I signed up to handle steers, not fight some private war.’

     ‘You yellow?’ asked one of his companions.

     ‘Call it what you want,’ said the other, with a shrug, ‘This here’s getting too hot for me. I’m off.’

     Having said which and without any further ado, Rodders spurred on his horse and vanished at speed.

      ‘Yellow-bellied bastard!’ said one of the remaining three, ‘You boys ain’t affeared to tackle a boy not long out o’ diapers?’

     It seemed that the three of them were not at all averse to the task in hand and so they set off; veering left around the shoulder of the bluff, until they saw Dan Lewis leading his mount down the rocky incline.

     Young as he was, and despite being a pretty good shot, Dan knew better than to ride openly against three opponents simultaneously. Instead, he positioned himself behind the pile of rocks and watched, with some little apprehension, as the  riders came on. When they were fifty yards away, he called out, ‘That’ll be just about close enough.’ He hoped that his voice didn’t sound as young and nervous to their ears, as it did to his.

     The three men reined in and one of them shouted, ‘You come out o’ there with your hands up, son. We don’t mean you no harm. Just want to ask you a few questions.’

     ‘I don’t think so,’ called back Dan, ‘I’m setting here, minding my own business. You all leave me be now.’

     ‘Can’t do that, boy,’ said another of the men, ‘We got our orders. Gotta take you to speak a little with our boss and after that I make no doubt you’ll be free to go on your way.’

     I don’t think so, thought Dan wryly, those boys mean me ill or I’m a Dutchman. Still and all, it’s a fearful thing to shoot at a fellow being. I surely hope it don’t come to any such thing. Despite this, he drew one of the pistols he carried and cocked it with his thumb. He had never in his life even pointed a gun at anybody, let alone pulled the trigger, but he certainly didn’t aim to allow himself to be disarmed by those fellows and then carried off to the Lord knew where.

      As the three men were engaging him in conversation, they were gradually edging forward, while at the same time moving apart from each other. It needed no great grasp of military strategy to see that the aim was to ouflank him, with two moving in from either side of his position. Dan yelled out, ‘That’s close enough, you hear me?’

     ‘Come on son, you don’t want any fightin’, no more than we do.’ And still they were urging on their mounts at a slow walk.

     He had no desire at all to start a gun battle, but it was clear enough to Dan that these fellows were not about to back off, leastways not unless he took some decisive action. He fired a single shot, well above their heads. The result was a fusillade of fire aimed seemingly straight at him. Maybe the men had forgotten that they had been instructed not to kill the boy or perhaps they were annoyed at being shot at in that way, but the half dozen shots loosed off were far too close to be mere warnings. These men were shooting to kill. The final ball loosed in the volley of shots struck a rock, no more than three feet from where Dan was crouching. A splinter of stone flew off and hit his cheek. Dan reached up his hand and felt the blood which was now running down his face. ‘That could o’ taken out my eye!’ he muttered and it was at that moment that he knew he had to act. He hesitated for a second, the significance of killing a man being greatly on his mind. But then he recalled the hangings that he had witnessed and thought of how close he had come to sharing the fate of those men. This hardened his heart and  he drew down on the man to the right of the little group, squeezed off a single shot at him and had the satisfaction of seeing the fellow throw up his arms and then fall from the saddle.

     For many men, that first time that they kill another human being is a shocking and awe-inspiring event. For Dan Lewis though, who knew well enough now that he was fighting for his very life; the moment passed all but unnoticed. He knew that unless he was fast about it, his life was like to be sacrificed in the next minute or so.

     ‘Son of a bitch!’ said one of the two surviving men, ‘The boy done killed Corky. Son of a bitch!’ He raised his own pistol again, staring at the rocks to see if he could catch a glimpse of movement. It was a fruitless endeavour, because Dan was already aiming at him and when he saw the man raising his pistol, that was all the encouragement that the young man required. He shot down the second of the men and then, almost without hesitating, he fired at the last man, killing him too.

     He was just coming to terms with the fact that he had killed three men with three shots, when Dan heard behind his right ear the unmistakable metallic click of a pistol being cocked. The man holding the gun said, ‘You let that pistol fall, or before God I’m a goin’ to blow out your brains.’

***

     Dave Carson was feeling uneasy in his mind. On the face of it, everything was going just fine and dandy for him, with more cattle coming into his control than ever before. He was reaping all the rewards of a big rancher with hardly any of the expense and inconvenience which usually attended such a role. In another year or so, he might be able to think about retiring from the business entirely and living the life of a respectable citizen in some big town. Men had died at the ‘Barred Os’ before and there was no cause for Garcia’s death to affect him greatly. Nevertheless, he had a sense of dread about this death; as though it were a harbinger of doom. Who was that young fellow that he had offered a job to without knowing a damned thing about him? It was in this frame of mind that Abe Goldman encountered the owner of the ‘Barred Os’ that day.

     Carson didn’t care for the look of the neat little man who rode up that afternoon. He was alone in the garden at the front of his house, tending to the roses which were his special delight, when he looked up and saw a rider drawing near. When the man was within hailing-distance, Carson called to him, ‘Whatever it is, we don’t want any today. Or have you got an appointment?’

      This sarcasm was altogether lost on Goldman, who responded pleasantly, ‘Well, I guess that’s a specimen of the thanks you are apt to receive when trying to do a fellow man a good turn. No matter, I’ll wish you a very good day, sir.’ He turned slowly, as though to leave. Dave Carson couldn’t, as the crafty Pinkerton’s agent knew very well would be the case, resist asking;

     ‘What is this good turn you wish to do me? You don’t look like any sort of philanthropist.’

     ‘Appearances can be terrible deceptive, or so they say. You never read in scripture where many a one has entertained angels unawares?’

      Carson gave the visitor an odd look. He said, ‘Speaking in general, I am not much of a one for scripture. Not to mention that you do not look a whole lot like an angel, either. Have you come here to talk about the Bible, like some preacher or Sunday School teacher, or is your business of a more practical nature?’

     ‘If it comes to the matter of that,’ said Goldman, ‘I ain’t all that hot on scripture and suchlike myself. Just making conversation and being agreeable.’

     ‘Let’s cut out all the nonsense. Suppose you just tell me what you’re after?’

     Goldman cut out the nonsense, saying, ‘You been running a big rustling operation. There are those as are on to you and you’re in danger. Give me two hundred dollars and I’ll give you chapter and verse of who’s after you and why.’

     ‘You talking about the law?’

     ‘I’m saying nary another word, not ‘til I got that money in my hand.’

     If Abe Goldman had turned up at the ‘Barred Os’ a day or two earlier, he would have got short shrift with this line, but Carson was already feeling spooked by Garcia’s death and the way that young man had dug up immediately afterwards. Hearing that he was in danger simply confirmed what he already knew in his waters. He looked hard at Goldman and then said, ‘Wait here.’

     It was all that Goldman could do, not to turn round his horse and gallop away from there, when Dave Carson left him and went into the big house. Suppose he came back with a scattergun? That was the way some men would play it, when faced with an attempt to extort money in this way. Although it was a mild afternoon, Goldman was suddenly chilly and rubbed his hands together nervously to try and warm them up.

     After five minutes, by which time Abe Goldman’s nerves were shredded all to pieces, the owner of the ‘Barred Os’ came back. In his hand was a little leather bag. He weighed this in his hand and said, ‘There’s two hundred dollars in cash money in this bag. I’m going to hand it to you, so that you can check it for yourself. Then you tell me what you know.’

     He leaned down from his horse and reached out an eager hand, but if Goldman thought he was dealing with a sucker, he was soon disabused of the notion. In a voice soft with menace, Carson said in a matter-of-fact and quiet way, ‘If this is some species of trick to part me from my money, then I strongly recommend you to think twice before taking this money. If I find out that you’re pulling a stroke on me, I’ll call up a few of my men and we’ll hunt you down and kill you before you get the chance to spend a dime of this money. That clear enough?’

     ‘It’s clear. There’s no trickery in the case.’

     ‘You better hope that’s true for your own sake.’ He handed the bag to the man on the horse, who told him.

    ‘Ezekial Carmichael knows that you’ve been preying on his cattle. He’s mad as a hornet and heading up here to do you harm. It might take him a day or so to raise a bunch of men, but when he’s done so, he’ll be after lynching you.’

    ‘How’d you know this? When did Carmichael find this out about me?’

    ‘Oh, not so long since,’ said Goldman vaguely, ‘Least you can get ready for him.’ Now that he had the money, he was anxious to be gone. There was something about Carson’s manner that was unsettling. ‘Well, our business is done. Reckon I’ll be making tracks.’ He began to turn the horse.

     ‘Wait up a minute,’ said Dave Carson affably, ‘I got something here that you might want to see.’

     ‘Hey? What’s that?’

     Carson put his hand into his jacket pocket and took out a shiny, silver muff pistol; the kind of weapon favoured by gamblers and ladies. He pointed this at Goldman’s face. So confident had he been about this new scheme, that the Pinkerton’s agent simply could not make sense of this development. He stared stupidly at the Derringer, as though he had never seen such a thing before in his life. Then he said, ‘I don’t know what you’re…’ He had no chance to complete this sentence, because Dave Carson shot him in the face at a range of less than six feet. The ball took Goldman through his left eye, bored through his brain and then exited from the back of his head in a welter of blood, bone and brain tissue. His horse took fright and reared, before bolting off with the dead man still mounted in the saddle.

***

     Fats had been compelled to leave his horse at the top of the ridge. The boy had, as he had guessed, made his way down from the bluff and he hoped that the other four would be in time to catch him and prevent his escape. His horse could not be persuaded to go down the little track along which Lewis had evidently gone. When he was half way down the path and could see the plain spread before him like a diorama display, Fats saw three of the men he had sent in pursuit of the boy. They were riding up to the base of the cliff. He couldn’t see from this angle, but guessed that Dan Lewis was down there with his horse. Well, he could forget that. Those men would be sure to lay hands on him so that Fats could have a leisurely session of question and answer with him.

     When he turned a sharp angle in the path down, Fats could see the boy crouched below him hiding behind a pile of rocks. He heard an exchange of words, but was not close enough to hear clearly what was said. As he speeded up, the shooting began. Fats’s main fear was that those damned fools might kill the kid; in flat defiance of his instructions. By the time he was right down at the bottom, the first flurry of shots had ceased and Fats found that he was behind the rocks and could see Dan Lewis ahead of him. The youngster was so preoccupied with the riders bearing down on him that he had not heard Fats approaching from his rear.

     As Fats tippy-toed up behind the young man, his aim always being to take the boy alive, he watched in amazement as the three riders were all mercilessly gunned down by a young fellow who scarcely looked old enough to be shaving yet. The gunfire masked the sound of Fats’ footsteps and as the echoes of the last shot faded away, he was right behind Dan Lewis with his pistol in his hand.

     ‘You let that pistol fall, or before God I’m a goin’ to blow out your brains.’

     Dan knew that the other man had the drop on him and had no especial reason for doubting that the man behind him meant just what he said. He opened his fingers and allowed the Colt Navy to drop to the ground. The man said, ‘Now you stand up, real slow and let me see what else you got about you.’

     Without making any move which might have been open to misinterpretation, Dan Lewis got to his feet and stood there waiting further instructions. ‘All right, you can turn around now, but keep it slow as you like, on account of I’m already a squeezing’ o’ this here trigger and we don’t neither of us want any mishaps.’

     Carefully, keeping his hands in plain view the whiles, Dan turned to face the man and was not overly surprised to find that it was Fats. He nodded and said, ‘Afternoon there.’

     ‘Just reach that other pistol out, with your left hand, and let it fall.’ Dan did so. Fats said, ‘You done killed five o’ my men, you know that? There’s three more out of action, one o’ them like to lose his leg. You kill Angel as well?’

     ‘I don’t recall the name.’

     ‘Boy, you really are something else again,’ said Fats, half admiringly, ‘I truly never saw the like. It pains me as you ain’t on my side. What a one you would o’ been to have riding next to me.’ Before he had finished speaking, Fats drew back his arm and without any warning, slammed the pistol in his hand against the side of Dan Lewis’s head. The two pound chunk of steel was enough to lay any man out and Dan dropped like poleaxed ox. The other man followed up this blow with a hefty kick to the youth’s ribs and then bent down and delivered another blow to the head, which had the effect of knocking out the young man entirely.

     After picking up the boy’s two pistols and slapping him round the face a couple of times to see if he was really out cold, Fats went back up the path at a brisk pace to retrieve his horse. He didn’t bother trying again to urge her down the precipitous track, but instead led her back down to where the wounded men were laying, groaning and swearing. Fats told them, ‘I’m a goin’ now for help. You men hang on in there and grit your teeth. You ain’t none o’ you in any fit state to be ridin’ your horses. I’ll fix up for a cart to come and collect you.’ Ignoring the cries for water and pleas not to be left there, he saddled up and walked his horse down from the limestone floor of the little valley and back out into the open country again.

     Once he was back on ordinary ground, Fats spurred on his horse into a canter and rode to his left, skirting the bluff, until he came to where he had left the young man. To his relief, he saw that the boy had not stirred. Fats dismounted and ferreted about in his saddlebag, until he found what he was looking for, a long, rawhide bootlace. Then he went over to Dan, turned the boy over onto his belly and wrenched his arms up behind his back.

     The Comanche have a way of immobilizing prisoners which requires no more than a foot long strip of rawhide. The method is simplicity itself.  You force a man’s hands behind his back and lash his thumbs together tightly. Then, you pull his two feet back hard and tuck them behind the bound thumbs. A man trussed up in this way will be unable to stand up or indeed do much except for wriggle about uncomfortably. Having rode with a band of Comancheros for some time, this was the kind of useful tip which Fats had picked up. He tied Dan’s thumbs tightly together and then set to waking the boy up. He splashed water from his canteen in Dan’s face and then lit a Lucifer and pressed it against the bare skin of the young man’s neck. That did the trick.

     ‘What’s going on?’ asked Dan.

     ‘What’s going on is that you and me are takin’ a little ride. Back to the ‘Barred Os’, so’s you can explain one or two things to my boss.’

     Originally, the plan had been for Fats and his boys to catch up with this young scoundrel in the middle of nowhere and then question him at length, before disposing of him once for all. But after having half his men killed and the others crippled by this one youth, Fats felt a certain reluctance at returning to the ‘Barred Os’ with a story of abject failure. Let the boss take out his anger on this fellow let Lewis explain what had been going on and what he was up to. Carson had an uncertain temper and providing a lightning conductor like this, in the form of a person who could be beaten or killed, was, to Fats’s way of thinking, a prudent precaution. He didn’t want Dave Carson’s wrath descending upon his own head alone.

     Getting a man with his hands tied behind his back onto a horse takes a bit of doing, but eventually Fats accomplished the task. Then, they set off north at a sedate walk.