William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

“You!” Barton said, face-to-face with Sam. “You brought the Comanches into town.”

“Not hardly,” Sam corrected.

Barton pointed a finger at Latigo. “And you too, huh? You’re a long way from Rancho Grande.”

“I wish I was there,” Latigo said.

“That makes two of us. I wish you was there, too.”

“We brought the stagecoach in. The Comanches wanted it, but we wouldn’t give it to ’em,” Sam said.

“You got some tall talking to do, mister,” Barton declared.

He knew Sam Heller as a bounty hunter, a Yankee gunman who had drifted into town in the aftermath of the War Between the States and then just set, not moving on. A most mysterious fellow, he had somehow engineered the destruction of the Harbin gang, which was no mean feat. The stranger had some pull with the bluebelly commander of Fort Pardee, too, but that was no surprise. Those damned Yankees all stuck together. Barton had as little use for Sam as he had for any Northerner—none—yet he knew to let sleeping dogs lie. The sheriff was in no hurry to brace him to run him out of town. Even a Yankee bounty killer had his uses in a time and place where so many violent men flourished.

An excited Hutto made his way into the hotel, rushing up to Barton. “What’s going on?”

“Let’s step off to the side, in private,” Sam said.

“Why?”

“This has got to be handled carefully.” Sam turned, crossing to an alcove in the lobby, the others trailing after him. It was a nice secure space with nowhere for eavesdroppers to hide. “This’ll do.”

With the dead strewn about the streets and the cries of the wounded still ringing in their ears, Hutto and Barton needed little in the way of convincing when Sam told them that Red Hand and his Comanche warriors were gathered to hit Hangtown in force—and soon. Black Robe’s famed garment, well known by ill repute in that part of the West, removed any lingering doubts.

“Red Hand’s a bad one. Wahtonka knows when to pull in his horns, but Red Hand’s looking to make a name for himself,” Barton said, more dour than ever.

“What do we do?” Hutto asked, worried.

“Fight him.”

“What about the troops from Fort Pardee?” Hutto asked. He and Barton looked to Sam, a Yankee with shadowy connections with Captain Harrison, the fort’s Union Army commander.

Sam shook his head. “They’re in force west of the Breaks, waiting to rendezvous with Major Adams’s wagon train to escort it across the Staked Plains.”

“Maybe Red Hand will attack them,” Hutto said, hopeful, momentarily brightening.

“Why would he go against the cavalry when he doesn’t have to?” Sam asked.

Hutto’s face fell.

“Hangtown’s a richer prize than any wagon train,” Sam added.

Barton ground a fist into his palm. “Red Hand played the bluebellies—played us all. Those attacks on the plains were a decoy to lure the army away.”

“The rendezvous point is less than a half day’s ride away,” Hutto said. “If we sent a rider out there to bring back the cavalry—”

Barton laughed mirthlessly. “Good luck finding somebody fool enough to take that ride, with Comanches on the loose. Staying here and blowing his brains out would be quicker and less painful.”

“He’d have a better chance if he went out after dark. He could reach the troops and have them back well before sunup. Comanches don’t attack at night, everybody knows that.”

“They’re not gonna let anybody ride through their lines, either.”

“Still, it’s a chance.”

“Nobody’s stopping you from asking for volunteers, Wade.”

Hutto’s gaze fell on Sam, measuring him.

“No, thanks,” Sam said quickly.

“Would a hundred dollars in gold change your mind?”

“No.”

“Two hundred?”

“I already ran the gauntlet today. Once is enough.”

Hutto eyed Latigo. “How about you?”

“ No comprende, señor.”

“Don’t bull us, Latigo,” Barton said. “I know you speak good English.”

Latigo grinned.

“You’d have to work a long time for Don Eduardo to make a hundred in gold,” Hutto pressed.

“You told him two hundred,” Latigo said, indicating Sam.

“All right, damn it, two hundred!”

“What good is money when you’re dead, señor?”

“Bah! If you don’t want it, somebody else will,” Hutto said, with ill grace.

“Try some of the Dog Star crowd,” Barton said. “Those galoots are wild and woolly enough to take a chance. Get ’em when they’re good and drunk—which is most of the time.”

Sam disagreed. “Best plan on fighting without the army. That’s the way to bet it.”

“Oh, brilliant! Got any more bright ideas, Heller?” Hutto asked, sarcastically.

“Yup. Get Stafford and Damon to call a cease-fire,” Sam stated. Johnny Cross had told him about the standoff.

Hutto made a face. “Is that all?”

“No, but it’s a start.”

Barton mulled it over. “Damon might go for it. He’s a gentleman. Vince’s an ornery cuss, though, and right now he’s got blood in his eye.”

“If he’s got no sense, his men might. They won’t fancy losing their hair to some brave’s scalping knife,” Sam said.

“We could use the firepower. Those Ramrod guns already came in mighty handy,” Barton admitted.

“It can’t hurt to ask,” Hutto agreed.

“That’s what you think,” Barton said sardonically. “Who’s gonna put it up to him, you?”

“Ahem! Well, uh—that is—er, you’re the sheriff, Mack.”

“Somebody better put it to Stafford, and quick,” Sam said, “before he gets it in his head to lock horns with Damon. Hangtown can’t afford to lose any more men.”

“You volunteering?”

“Now Sheriff, you know none of these Rebs’d listen to a damn Yankee like me.”

“Hell, I don’t know why I’m listening to you.”

“Because you want to stay alive. And as long as you’re listening, I’ve got few more ideas.”

SEVENTEEN

Hangtown made ready for war, teeming with activity like a disturbed anthill. In addition to the two watchmen posted in the church bell tower, two more were stationed in the courthouse clock tower at the other side of town. That ensured against a Comanche sneak from east as well as west.

Two watchers in each observation post was protection against a lone sentry falling asleep, a very real threat in a town where whiskey flowed freely with no lack of passionate devotees.

Hutto found two volunteers willing to risk riding out to Anvil Flats in the Breaks to fetch the U.S. cavalry troop escorting Major Adams’s wagon train. The two, Hapgood and Coleman, were each willing to make the attempt for one hundred dollars in gold—more money than either had ever seen in one place at one time.

Hapgood was a short, feisty bantamweight, tougher than leather, who’d survived some of the worst hell of the war. Coleman was a small rancher whose place had been foreclosed on by the bank when he couldn’t make the payments.

Hutto wasn’t such a fool as to put out any money in advance, and risk the recipient galloping away for all he was worth. The volunteers would be paid upon return with the troops. As soon as it got dark the messengers would go out separately, by different routes, to maximize the chances of at least one of them getting through.

The courthouse, the strongest and most secure structure in Hangtown, served as headquarters. Families from all parts of town streamed to it, women and children massing in the large, high-ceilinged courtroom.

Hangtown was too large to be defended as a whole. The heart of the defense was Four Corners, where the courthouse, the jail, the feed store, and the Golden Spur all met. Townfolk were leery of leaving treasured possessions unguarded in abandoned homes and shops, but were allowed to bring only water, food, weapons, and similar necessities into the courthouse.