Incident at Gunn Point Page 4

  “Because he’s got no holes in him, little darling!” Clancy said with a laugh, walking across the street toward the sheriff’s office, as if leading the rest of the men and women.

  “Oh, I get it,” Cherry said, smiling, after looking puzzled for a second.

  “Sit tight for a second, Summers,” Stiles said. He handed Summers the reins to Rochenbach’s horse as the rest of the posse men gathered at the hitch rail and stepped down from their saddles.

  Summers looked around and saw the wounded Rochenbach swaying slowly in his saddle beside him.

  “We…there…yet?” Rochenbach asked weakly, barely conscious.

  “Keep quiet,” Summers warned him.

  Swinging down from his saddle, rifle in hand, Stiles stepped into the street, meeting the coming crowd and stopping them in their tracks.

  “Everybody stop right there,” he said firmly. He held his rifle in both hands across his chest like a barricade rail.

  “Get the hell out of the way, Parley,” Clancy said. He grinned confidently and kept coming. The crowd pressed forward more cautiously behind him.

  “Don’t use that language with me again,” Stiles warned him.

  “Language? Who the hell are you kidding, Parley?” he said to Stiles. “Damned if you’re stopping us. Come on, folks, let’s take a look-see at these thieving poltroons—”

  Before the words left his lips, Stiles’ Winchester rifle made a vicious swipe across his face. The rifle butt sent blood flying from his nose and mouth. The impact of the blow spun him almost a full circle and hurled him to the ground, knocked cold.

  “He’s killed him!” a hushed voice said.

  The women in the crowd gasped; the men winced. But they all stopped in their tracks as if met by barbed wire. Summers sat half turned in his saddle, watching closely, seeing how the deputy handled himself.

  A little harsh? Summers asked himself. The crowd stood with looks of terror on their faces.

  “Clancy was the first to fall,” Stiles said. “Anybody wants to be next, step forward.”

  Yep, harsh, Summers decided. But he had to admit, it got the job done. It seemed all right with the rest of the townsfolk.

  “No takers, huh?” said Stiles after a moment of pause. “All right, then, let’s all conduct ourselves in an orderly manner. No more profane language, from any of you. You’re all better people than that.”

  “What happened out there, Deputy?” a man called out from the middle of the crowd.

  “First things first,” said Stiles. He looked at two men standing in front of the crowd. “Fellows, drag Clancy somewhere and throw some cold water in his face. When he wakes up tell him I’m sorry I had to hit him.”

  “I bet he watches his mouth from now on,” a townsman said under his breath.

  The two men hurried in, grabbed Clancy by his feet and dragged him away facedown in the dirt, his mouth agape. His bloody cheek bounced across the cold rough dirt.

  “Stuart, how is the sheriff doing?” he called out to the telegraph clerk.

  Charlie Stuart stepped forward. The rest of the town stayed back and listened along with Stiles. Eric Holt, owner of the Gunn Point Weekly Press, stood back with a pencil and paper in his hands, making notes.

  “Doc Meadows says it’s fifty-fifty whether he makes it, Deputy,” said Stuart.

  “I’ll get right over there,” said Stiles. He turned toward the saddlebags behind his saddle. “We got the money back, thanks to this man, Will Summers.”

  The townsmen all looked at Summers, some of them recognizing him from past trips through town.

  “God bless you, Will Summers,” said an elderly man with a long white beard who stood leaning on a walking cane.

  “Hear, hear!” said another townsmen, leading the group in a round of applause.

  “What’s going…on back there?” Rochenbach asked Summers in a raspy voice, hearing the townsfolk cheer and clip.

  “Keep quiet,” Summers replied in a lowered tone. “I think he’s keeping their minds off lynching you.”

  “Where’s Bob Harper?” Stiles asked, looking all around the crowded street.

  “Over here, Deputy,” a man in a black suit called out, hurrying along the boardwalk from the direction of a clapboard and stone bank building down the street. “I saw you riding in. I had to lock up the bank first.” His left eye was swollen and turning purple where Jackie Warren had smacked him with a pistol barrel. “Pardon me for not moving at full gait today, Deputy.”

  Stiles nodded, turned and stepped back to the horses and took down the bulging saddlebags. Without looking up at Summers, he said to him and the posse, “Soon as I hand this money over, you men take him inside and lock him in a cell. Carry Jackie inside too. We’ve still got that matter to deal with.”

  The posse men nodded as one.

  “I—I need a doctor,” Rochenbach rasped.

  “If you don’t do as you’re told, you won’t,” Stiles warned him under his breath. To the men he said, “Some of you stay inside and watch things while I go see the sheriff.”

  “I’ve got it covered, Deputy,” said Long, the gambler.

  “Me too,” said Leffert, the teamster. “Nobody is going to take him without your say-so.”

  “Obliged,” said Stiles.

  Walking back to the middle of the crowded street, the deputy handed the saddlebags over to the bank manager.

  “Check it out good, Mr. Harper,” Stiles said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Yes, sir, Deputy,” the thin bank manager said. He took the heavy saddlebags and quickly set them in the dirt and opened them. He took out two banded stacks of bills and raised them for the town to see. “It’ll need a full and close counting, but it looks to all be here,” he announced.

  The crowd cheered again.

  Without a word, Summers and the posse men gathered around the two outlaws’ horses. Lowering Rochenbach, Summers and Herbert Long looped his arms across their shoulders, walked him onto the boardwalk and through the door to the sheriff’s office. As they led him back toward two empty cells, three other men carried Jackie Warren’s body inside and laid it on a wooden bench against a wall.

  Summers walked back out front. Seeing him, Stiles gave him a nod and said, “Walk to the doctor’s with me, Summers. Let’s go see how the sheriff is doing.”

  On their way past the front of Caster Stems’ Maplethorpe Saloon, Stiles saw the owner gazing out across the top of the batwing doors.

  “Good work, Deputy,” the heavyset Stems said, a cigar hanging between his thick pink fingers.

  “Thank Summers here,” Stiles said. “He’s the one who stopped them and got the money back.”

  “I mean good work keeping them from swinging the wounded outlaw from my overhang rafter,” Stems said, turning his eyes toward the open rafters above the boardwalk. He looked Summers up and down.

  “Howdy, Caster,” Summers said.

  “Howdy, Summers,” Stems said. “Seems like every time I see you, there’s some kind of commotion stirring.”

  “You two know each other, then,” said Stiles.

  “I know him,” said, Stems. “He once led a posse out of Rileyville with a deputy named Abner Webb. They killed off a gang of guerrilla riders who thought the war was still going on.”

  “The Peltry brothers…,” said Stiles, looking surprised. He shook his head. “I feel foolish that I didn’t recognize your name right off. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “He don’t like to brag,” Stems said on Summers’ behalf. He blew a stream of smoke. “Do you, Will Summers?”

  “It was a long time ago, and best forgotten,” Summers said quietly.

  Stems grinned and jerked his head toward Summers.

  “See what I mean, Deputy?” he said.

  “That explains how he dropped those two outlaws and sent the others running like scalded cats,” said Stiles.

  “See, you learn something every day, Deputy,” said Caster Stems. He nodded toward the c
rowd in the street as many of them followed Harper toward the bank with the bulging saddlebags. “Want me to offer everybody a drink on the house, get them thinned out some—drinkers and nondrinkers?”

  “Obliged, Stems,” said Stiles. “Keep the conversation away from hanging.”

  “At your service, Deputy,” Stems said. He looked back over his shoulder and called out to his bartender, “Bernard, go tell these folks they’ve got a drink coming, on the house, owing to the town getting its money back.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” the bartender called back to him from within the saloon.

  “Let’s get on to Doc Meadows’ office—see about Sheriff Goss,” Stiles said to Summers as the bartender stepped out through the batwing doors and walked toward the townsfolk still standing in the street.

  At the doctor’s office, Summers and Deputy Stiles followed a thin, gangly young man with a tangle of red hair down a hallway to a recovery room. Inside the room the doctor took a short cigar from his mouth and let out a stream of smoke.

  “Sheriff,” he said quietly, “do you feel like some company? Deputy Stiles is back off the trail.”

  Across the room, a pale, drawn face rose from a pillow and looked over at the three men standing at the door.

  The wounded lawman gave a slight nod, then lowered his head back down onto his pillow. A wide bloodstained bandage covered most of his gray hairy chest.

  The young doctor took a draw on his cigar and said to the deputy barely above a whisper, “Don’t wear him out. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Stiles whispered in reply, “Is he going to live, Dr. Meadows?”

  The doctor gave him a look that revealed nothing. “He’s tough…. We’ll see.”

  Stiles and Summer took off their hats and crossed the floor to the bed as the doctor turned and slipped back out the door. Summers stood back a step as Stiles looked at the sheriff.

  The sheriff raised his head an inch from the pillow and looked Stiles up and down.

  “Did you…catch them?” he asked in a pained and shallow voice.

  “Two of them, Sheriff,” Stiles said, “one dead and one wounded. Two of them are still running loose. We got the money back.”

  “Good work,” the sheriff whispered, relieved by the news.

  “I can’t take credit, Sheriff,” Stiles said. “Will Summers here shot them both.” He took a short step to the side and gestured Summers forward.

  “Will Summers…?” Sheriff Goss said, straining to keep his head raised slightly.

  “Howdy, Sheriff Goss,” Summers said, looking down at him.

  Goss looked Summers up and down as if uncertain he was actually seeing him.

  “Will…? You shot them?” he said.

  “I happened upon them on my way here, Sheriff,” said Summers. “The one called Little Jackie shot one of my horses. I returned fire.”

  “Little Jackie…?” Sheriff Goss looked at Stiles in disbelief.

  “I’m afraid it’s true, Sheriff,” he said. “I dread telling you, but Little Jackie’s the one he killed.”

  “My, my,” the sheriff said. He let his head relax back onto the pillow. “Does his pa know yet?”

  “Not yet,” Stiles said. “I’ll have to ride out and tell him everything. I’ve kept it quiet so far. The townsfolk were more interested in hanging the one who’s still alive. I directed their attention toward getting their money back. But they’ll be wanting to know.”

  “And rightly…they should,” the sheriff said, staring up at the ceiling. “This is not time for me to be…laid up with a bullet run through my chest.” He turned his eyes to Summers. “Do you know who you’ve shot, Will?”

  “Yep,” Summers replied.

  “I told him, Sheriff,” said Stiles.

  “He shot at me, Sheriff Goss,” said Summers. “He killed my horse, but he could have just as likely killed me.”

  “I understand, Will,” said the wounded sheriff. “Any man would have returned fire. But Big Jack Warren won’t see it that way.” He sighed and fell silent, exhausted from even a short amount of talking.

  “Sheriff,” Summers said, “if it’ll help, I’ll keep riding, get out of here before Deputy Stiles tells Big Jack.”

  “Send you running?” Stiles said. “That’s a hell of a reward, after you keeping this town from losing its money.”

  “I didn’t do it for reward,” Summers replied. “I did it to protect myself and my animals. Besides, it’s not like you’re running me out of town. It’s my own idea. I was only passing through anyway—taking on supplies.”

  Stiles started to say more, but the sheriff raised a tired hand toward the two of them.

  “Will…ride on,” he said weakly. “When I’m back on my feet…we’ll thank you properly.”

  “This leaves a bad taste in my mouth,” Stiles said.

  “Live with it,” said Goss.

  “It’s for the best, Deputy,” Summers added. “This hand was dealt me out of the blue. It feels right playing it this way.”

  Stiles considered things for a second, then said, “All right. But go draw what supplies you need and have them billed to the sheriff’s office. It’s the least we can do, right, Sheriff?”

  Goss just looked up at him, too weary to talk any further on the matter.

  “Obliged,” Summers said to Stiles, “but I’ll foot my own bill.”

  “I meant no offense,” Stiles said.

  “None was taken,” Summers said. He nodded at the wounded sheriff, then at the deputy as he put his hat on. “I hope to see you both under more peaceful circumstances.” He turned, walked out the door and closed it behind himself.

  “Give him an hour head start…before you ride out to Warren’s spread,” Goss said.

  “I will,” said Stiles. He considered that matter and gave a look of dread. “This won’t ride right with Big Jack, no matter how I stack it.”

  “It’s his son, Deputy,” said Goss, “his only son.”

  “Yeah,” said Stiles, “and Jack Warren thinks he’s bigger than God to begin with.”

  Chapter 5

  On his way to the mercantile store to gather supplies and grain for his horses, Summers saw Horace Dewitt leave Stems’ Maplethorpe Saloon with a bottle of rye tucked under each arm. Before Summers turned into the mercantile store, he watched Dewitt slip along the boardwalk and turn into the door of the sheriff’s office.

  Good luck, Deputy, Summers thought, imagining how difficult things could get, Stiles trying to keep the peace here on his own until the wounded sheriff recovered. If he recovered, Summers reminded himself. But he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Staying here, facing Big Jack Warren once he heard that the man who killed his son was in Gunn Point, would only make matters worse.

  “Well, now, how can I help you, sir?” said a thin, bald clerk as he stepped around from behind a long wooden counter. But before Summers could reply, the clerk recognized him from the street and said, “Oh my! You’re Will Summers, the one who stopped those outlaws and retrieved our money.”

  “Word travels fast,” Summers said.

  “Indeed, like wildfire,” the clerk said eagerly. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Joseph Woods. My father is Richard Woods. He rode with the posse. He’s at the sheriff’s office right now. I can’t wait to hear him tell what happened out there.”

  Summers only nodded politely.

  Before the young clerk could continue, they both turned their faces in the direction of the saloon as a round of laughter and applause swelled above the street.

  “Please forgive all the revelry,” the clerk said. “But this town needed something to feel good about. We all owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

  “I only did what any man would do,” Summers said.

  “I understand, sir,” said the clerk, “but most of us merchants in Gunn Point are forced to keep our operating capital in Warren and Sutters Trust Bank. We could have been ruined were it not for you. I just can’t thank you enough.”
/>   “You already have,” Summers said, feeling a little embarrassed.

  “Yes, of course,” said the young man, realizing Summers’ reluctance to talk about it. “How may I assist you today?”

  “Two ten-pound sacks of feed oats, saddle-tied,” Summers said. “A pound of coffee, some airtight beans. Some jerked shank.” He stopped as it struck him what the clerk had said a moment earlier.

  “Yes, sir,” said the clerk. “Anything else?”

  “What did you mean, the merchants are forced to keep their operating capital in Warren’s bank?”

  “Oh, I apologize! Forced is not the correct word,” the young clerk said. “I should say we feel obligated to keep our money there. Mr. Warren and Mr. Sutters both explained how crucial our financial support of the bank would be if they agreed to open it here.”

  “Makes sense,” said Summers. He dismissed the matter and looked all around at the shelves full of cans, bottles and tins of food and notions.

  “Anything else?” Joseph Woods asked as he went about gathering Summers’ items and laying them on the wooden countertop.

  “I suppose that’s all I’ll need for the trail,” Summers replied. “That and a box of Winchester cartridges.”

  “Coming right up,” said the young man.

  Moments later, Summers walked out of the store carrying a canvas sack filled with food supplies in his left hand. The two ten-pound sacks of feed for the horses hung over his shoulder by the short rope holding them tied together.

  Out in front of the sheriff’s office, he gathered his dapple gray and his three-horse string and led the animals around a corner of an alley and back to the town livery barn. It suited him when no hostler met him at the livery barn door. He preferred tending to his own horses.

  He lit an oil lantern against the gloom of evening. He grained the horses and gave them each a handful of hay he pulled from a hay bin. As the hungry animals chewed hay, he set three oak buckets of water in front of them. As the horses drew water, he carved a slice of elk from the dried shank he took from the sack of supplies. He ate it and swallowed a mouthful of canteen water behind it. That would have to do for now, he told himself. It was time to go.