Golden Riders Page 3

  “Bad enough,” said Eland, hurrying along to keep up with the long-legged sheriff. “Merlyn the bank manager said they charged in shooting, scared everybody, made him unlock the teller’s door, then ran behind the counter and never stole a single dollar! Took off without taking any of the money!”

  The sheriff gave him a doubting look as they moved along toward the circling rider.

  “Never took a dollar? Are you sure?” he questioned the panting bartender.

  “As crazy as it sounds, I’m not making it up,” the bartender replied. “Merlyn Oates said one of them opened his fly, shook himself at a woman customer. Then he grabbed a desk chair up in his arms and carried it out the door! They got outside and took to shooting at everything in sight—his exposed crotch still flapping and bobbing.”

  “This sounds bad,” said the sheriff. “Get somewhere safe and take cover, Eland. I don’t want to have to worry about shooting you if this thing gets hot and heavy.”

  “I’m gone,” said the bartender, ducking and running away as the circling rider brought the scrappy roan into a run and started shooting wildly at the sheriff. In the long alley behind the street the shooting had ended suddenly, a cloud of thick dust billowed above the roofline.

  What the . . . ?

  The sheriff looked at the rise of dust where the guns had fallen silent, but he had no time to contemplate. The blaze-faced roan charged straight at him, its rider letting out a yell, still firing mindlessly. With no place near him to take cover, Sheriff Schaffer took a standing position, his feet shoulder-width apart, his Colt raised, leveled and cocked. He forced himself to take his time—make the first shot count. The rider charged, seventy feet, fifty feet. Schaffer held his ground and squeezed sure and steady on the Colt’s trigger.

  But just before his Colt fired, the rider on the blaze-faced roan cut the horse sharply away. The whinnying animal skidded and slid in a tight abrupt turn, redirected its charge and ran straight toward the hotel. The sheriff stood staring, his Colt still up and ready, but as yet unfired.

  “Holy gods in heaven . . . !” he said aloud, seeing the roan lunge up and across the boardwalk, its rider reared back on the reins to no avail as the two of them crashed headlong through the closed front doors. “He’s gone into the hotel . . . ?” Schaffer said, stunned, glancing back and forth as if searching for someone to confirm what he was seeing.

  On the street, the sheriff stared transfixed through the broken-down double doors, seeing the horse’s rump ascend quickly and disappear up the hotel stairs. The sound of breaking boards and shattered banister resounded as the roan plowed its way up to the second-floor landing, turned a sharp left and ran along the hallway leaving broken floorboards flying up in its wake. The sheriff and a few venturing townsfolk gawked and followed the sound of breaking wood and smashing hooves along the inside of the large hotel. Another crash resounded, a woman screamed as the roan blasted through a door, across an occupied room above the street. The stunned onlookers watched the roan launch itself and its clinging rider through a closed window in a spray of glass, shredded curtain and broken sash. The animal landed skidding and backpedaling on the tin-clad overhang five feet below the window.

  “He’s come out!” someone shouted, seeing the rider bowed and gripping the horse’s neck for dear life, his boots out of his stirrups flapping against the roan’s sides. Sheriff and townsfolk watched, stunned, as the horse’s hooves slid out and down the tin overhang. Beneath the overhang the support posts broke away and collapsed just as horse and rider sprang out off it onto the street.

  Hitting the street, the rider flew from the horse’s back. The horse stumbled and rolled away; the rider flew off in a high arc and fell with a splash, flat on his back in a horse trough full of water. The impact of the falling outlaw caused the water trough to burst at its corner seams and send a wave of water rolling onto the street.

  With no more than cuts and scratches from broken glass and splinters, the horse rolled to its hooves and stood shaking itself off in a cloud of dust. Shredded curtains fell from its rump. Its twisted saddle hung on its side. In the flattened horse trough fifteen feet away, the rider, Foz Garlet, soaking wet, stunned and wild-eyed, struggled to his feet and sloshed wobbly away as if nothing had happened. His crotch had somehow fallen partially back behind his open fly.

  “This is all a first for me . . . ,” Sheriff Schaffer murmured to himself almost in disbelief. He uncocked his Colt and left his thumb over the hammer.

  “There he goes, crazy as a goose!” shouted Eland Fehrs, who had eased back into the street, seeing the spectacle unfold.

  Foz Garlet, dripping wet, looked around at the sound of the bartender’s voice with a lost and vacant expression. His eyes appeared to swirl with madness.

  “Where’s my damn horse?” he asked no one in particular. His voice was thick and distant sounding.

  The sheriff stepped forward quickly, noting the empty holster on the wet man’s hip.

  “You won’t need him,” he said. Expertly, he grabbed Foz’s shoulder with his free hand and kicked his feet out from under him. The would-be robber fell to the mud offering no resistance.

  As the sheriff bent forward and reached for the handcuffs he carried behind his gun belt, a townsman ran toward him from the alley behind the main street.

  “Sheriff, quick!” the man shouted, seeing the man on the ground, the broken glass, the horse, the curtains at its hooves, “there’re two more down back in the alley. They rode headlong smack into each other!”

  The sheriff straightened from cuffing the downed outlaw and looked at the townsman Arthur Polks in disbelief.

  “I mean it, Sheriff!” said Polks, a middle-aged lawyer. “It’s the damnedest thing I ever saw!”

  “Ha!” said Fehrs, “you didn’t see nothing—you should have been here.” He gestured toward the fallen overhang, then upward at the open hole where the window used to be.

  “Eland,” the sheriff cut in firmly, “stand here and keep a foot on this one.”

  “Me . . . ?” the barkeeper protested.

  “Yes, you,” said the sheriff. “It was your loaded mescal that caused all this.”

  “But what if he tries something?” said Fehrs.

  “Look at him,” said Sheriff Schaffer, nodding down at the hapless Foz Garlet. The cuffed outlaw babbled mindlessly up at the sky. His tongue wagged in his gaping mouth. “He don’t know where he’s at or how he got here.”

  As the sheriff stepped away and let the barkeeper plant his boot on the downed man’s chest, Merlyn Oates, the bank manager, hurried forward.

  “Thank God you caught these blackguards, Sheriff!” he called out proudly. “Caught them right in the act.” He offered a firm smile, glaring down at the mindless Foz Garlet.

  “I understand they didn’t take any money?” The sheriff asked.

  “That’s correct, Sheriff,” said Oates. “I have never seen such a fouled-up piece of work. It was hardly a robbery at all.” He looked toward the broken desk chair lying in the dirt a few yards away. “I suppose I can take my chair back to the bank, see about repairing it?”

  The sheriff considered his request for a second.

  “Not right now,” he said finally. “Better let me hold on to it for a while.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Sheriff, why?” the banker asked.

  Before the sheriff could answer, Arthur Polks stifled a laugh and said, “It may well be evidence, Mr. Oates.” He looked the banker squarely in the eyes.

  “That’s nonsense!” said the banker. He turned a glare to Schaffer.

  “Attorney Polks is right,” the sheriff said. “If it’s the only thing stolen, it’s evidence. Unless you want to see these men go free.”

  “Go free?” said Oates. “They robbed the bank!”

  “Did they demand any money?” Polks cut in.

  “No, they did not, but
they demanded I unlock the door to the teller counter,” Oates offered. “They held guns on me!”

  “Did they take any money?” Polks proceeded dryly.

  “No, but—” The banker stopped abruptly, seeing where the lawyer was leading. He pointed a finger at Polks. “Listen to me, Polks, you slick-talking son of a—”

  “Easy now, Merlyn,” Polks warned. “You don’t want to start saying things about me that could cost you money should I take offense and pursue it—”

  “Shut up, the both of you,” Schaffer said, fed up with them. He turned back to Eland Fehrs. “Keep this one pinned down. I’ll be right back.” He looked at Oates. “Go back to the bank, for now.” He looked at Arthur Polks. “Come with me, Polks, and do me a favor. I’m going to need a qualified legal opinion from an officer of the court here.”

  “Any way I can help, Sheriff,” Polks said, giving Oates the banker a sly smug grin. “Any way at all . . .”

  • • •

  It was late evening when the Ranger rode into the Midland Settlement with Jake Cleary and Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell, both of them handcuffed, riding along in front of him. Sam held on to a lead rope that ran from one wounded outlaw to the next, a loop drawn around each of their waists. Bonsell held his hands up against his chest, his right thumb hooked in his shirt, supporting his injured left fingers. The bandanna around his fingers had turned almost black, covered with thick congealed blood. Cleary sat stiffly upright to help lessen the pain in his bruised lower belly.

  Along the boardwalk townsfolk had begun to gather as soon as the three riders came into sight. They stood armed and ready, holding rifles, shotguns, pistols, pick handles. Fear and hatred shadowed their faces. Yet upon seeing the two men handcuffed and the Arizona Ranger badge on Sam’s chest, they eased back, lowered their weapons, and watched as he followed his prisoners toward the hitch rail in front of the sheriff’s office.

  “Not a real friendly bunch here, are they?” Jake Cleary said, eyeing the townsfolk. The three looked at the collapsed overhang in front of the hotel and the broken support posts.

  “Something bad’s gone on here,” Sam replied quietly. “They look a little edgy.”

  He looked at the broken window glass and ragged curtains in the street, the ripped-out window frame on the hotel’s second floor. Two men carried the busted double doors away from the hotel. Two others stood in the broken glass with brooms and shovels.

  “Edgy is putting it mildly, Ranger,” Bonsell said in a lowered voice. “I see hanging ropes in their eyes.”

  “You two keep your eyes down and your mouths shut,” Sam replied. “Let’s see what the sheriff’s got to say.” Ahead of them, he saw the sheriff step out of his office and stand looking toward them from the boardwalk.

  As the Ranger and his prisoners rode closer, the sheriff eyed his badge and let his hand fall away from the butt of his holstered Colt. He watched the Ranger touch his hat brim as the three stopped in the street a few yards away.

  “We’ve never met, Ranger Burrack,” Schaffer said, touching his hat brim in return. “I’m Sheriff Dave Schaffer.”

  Sam gave him a questioning look.

  Shaffer explained, “I recognized your sombrero,” he said with a thin smile. “I heard you were riding a black-point dun these days. Sometimes a man’s horse and hat gear is easier recognized than the man himself.”

  Sam only nodded and returned the thin smile.

  “Pleased to meet you, Sheriff,” he said. Gesturing a nod toward the street behind him he said, “I can see you’ve had your hands full here.”

  “Yep,” said the sheriff. “Three brothers calling themselves the Garlets rode in and tried to rob our new bank.” He aimed a narrowed glance toward the Midland Settlement Bank. “Left us with a mess, but didn’t get away with any money.”

  “I’ve been hearing their names of late,” Sam said. “I just put them on a list I keep. Good job catching them. It saves me the trouble.”

  “Obliged, Ranger Burrack,” said Schaffer. “I’d like to take credit for catching them, but I can’t. The truth is they got so broken-down on mescal and cocaine beforehand, two of them rode smack into each other, the third idiot rode his horse up the hotel stairs and out the window, glass and all. . . .” He paused and nodded at the mess of broken glass, wood and curtains in the street. “You see how well that worked for him.” He shook his head. “I’ve got all three of them locked up. Can’t make sense out of anything they say.”

  Cutthroat Teddy snickered under his breath.

  “That would be ole Foz doing the fancy riding,” he said. “That’s one fool that shouldn’t be allowed on a horse’s back.”

  “Shut up, Cutthroat,” Sam said.

  The Sheriff looked at Bonsell, then at Sam.

  “This one would be Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell, I take it?” he queried.

  Cutthroat Teddy looked proud of being recognized for his growing notoriety.

  “What gave me away, Sheriff?” he said, his chest a little puffed.

  “It’s known that you never keep your mouth shut,” the sheriff replied sharply.

  Sam said to Schaffer, “Yep, that’s him all right. And this one is Jake Cleary. I expect you’ve heard of him, too.”

  Jake Cleary only looked down at his boots.

  “You bet I have,” Sheriff Schaffer said. He touched his hat brim toward the older gunman almost in a gesture of respect.

  Not liking the way the two lawmen were paying more attention to the older gunman than to him, Cutthroat Teddy spoke loud enough for gathering bystanders to hear him.

  “If you two lawdogs think you’re cleaning up this badlands you’ve got another think coming—”

  “Shut up, Teddy,” Cleary said, cutting him off. “Can’t you see folks are on a sharp edge here?” He gave a wary look around the street at the stark, angry faces gathering in closer.

  “Shutting up is wise advice; you’d best take it,” Schaffer quietly warned Bonsell. Bonsell looked all around at the faces of the townsfolk, then lowered his head. Sam looked at Schaffer.

  Schaffer nodded over his shoulder toward his office door and spoke to the Ranger.

  “This is a good time to get in out of the sun,” he said. “Bring your prisoners on in, Ranger Burrack. This is one robbery you’ll likely want to hear about sitting down.”

  Chapter 4

  With the two prisoners in a cell next to the Garlets, the Ranger and the sheriff walked back down the short hall to the sheriff’s office. Schaffer closed a thick wooden door separating the jail from the office area and sat down behind his desk. The Ranger leaned against a support post in front of the big oak desk while Sheriff Dave Schaffer related the whole botched robbery attempt to him.

  He took off his sombrero and glanced questioningly at the big wooden door and hesitated before speaking.

  “Don’t worry, Ranger,” said Schaffer, “they can’t hear nothing we say back there. It’s been tested.”

  “It crossed my mind listening to you,” Sam said. “At some time or other, every man back there rides with Braxton Kane’s Golden Gang, out of Colorado Territory—the gang I’m trying to round up and put out of business. I’d like to get them all back to Nogales at once if I can.”

  “Oh . . . ?” said Schaffer. “Why’s that, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I killed Braxton’s brother, Cordell, just the other day,” Sam replied.

  “Whoa, I see,” said Schaffer. “So, Braxton’s going to be sending his whole gang after you, soon as he hears about Cordy. The more of them you get out of the way now, the better?”

  “Something like that, Sheriff,” Sam said. “Once I get Braxton Kane in my sights I can cut the head off the snake, so to speak. But for now, I have to keep moving forward, taking them down one and two at a time when I can catch them.”

  “I realize how it is with these big robbing gangs
,” the sheriff sighed. “Gunmen drift in and out, job after job. You never know who all’s riding with them and who ain’t.”

  “There it is, Sheriff,” Sam said. “If it’s all the same with you, I’d like to take these Garlets off your hands tomorrow morning, get them out of here before Kane hears about his brother.”

  “You’re welcome to them, Ranger,” Schaffer said. “The truth is, I’ve been wondering how to keep the town from swinging a rope over a timber post.” He gave a short grin. “You’d be doing us all a favor taking them to Nogales come morning. In fact I’ll ride with you, if that’s suitable.”

  “I welcome your company,” the Ranger said. As he finished speaking, a knock resounded on the front door and the attorney, Arthur Polks, walked in without waiting for an invitation.

  Before acknowledging Polks, Sheriff Schaffer turned his eyes back to Sam long enough to say, “It’s all settled then, first thing in the morning, Nogales?”

  “First thing,” Sam said.

  “I hope you’re not planning on moving these Garlet brothers, Sheriff,” Polks cut in, as if having been there for the whole conversation.

  Sam and the sheriff both looked at the rosy-faced lawyer. Polks grinned confidently, took off his stovepipe crowned hat and jerked a pencil and a thick book pad from inside it.

  “Because if you’ll permit me to say so . . . ,” Polks said thumbing through notes he’d begun writing down shortly after the Garlets’ melee in the dirt street. “These men must not be charged with bank robbery, no indeed.” He thumbed through more pages of notes. “Even bank manager Merlyn Oates has stated that these men asked for no money, nor did they abscond with any,” he continued in an officious tone, “although there was in fact money there in the open safe for the taking had they chosen to do so.”

  “What kind of shenanigan are you trying to pull, Polks?” Schaffer said.