Cheyenne Cowboy Page 3

  Hammer knew only too well that sometimes you could sense trouble a long time before it actually happens. That was the feeling he had as he watched the six dust-caked horsemen outside the tall livery stable. The overwhelming feeling of impending danger.

  ‘Who the hell are those hombres?’ he sighed as he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘They sure look like trouble to me. Mighty big trouble.’

  The cowboy shook his head and then diverted his eyes from the men who troubled him. He then remembered his promise to the young bellhop. Billy wanted to be a cowboy and Hammer was respected enough by his fellow cowpunchers to put a good word in for the youngster.

  Gat Hammer had a fair idea where he would find most of his fellow drovers but was not quite so sure about the whereabouts of trail boss, Tom McGee. McGee was a man of many moods. He could drink most towns dry but sometimes satisfied his thirst with soda pop.

  The Cheyenne cowboy wondered which McGee he was looking for. Was it the mad womanizing drunk or the calm professional? He rubbed the nape of his neck and then heard the familiar sound of his fellow cowboys’ raised voices coming from a saloon two hundred yards from where he stood.

  A liquor-fuelled fight seemed to be in full flow.

  ‘Maybe the boys know where Tom is,’ Hammer muttered as he aimed his boots toward the boisterous sound and hurried toward the saloon. The closer he got, the louder the noise became. The cowboy jumped down from the boardwalk and raced across the sand. He quickly mounted the steps to the next boardwalk. As he narrowed the distance between himself and the saloon he cast his attention at the large brick and stone bank opposite.

  That would be his next destination after he found McGee, he thought. He would pay his trail drive earnings into the bank account he had opened three years earlier. Finally he would have enough money saved to buy himself a small spread and raise his own cattle.

  The thought appealed to Hammer. Being a cowboy was a romantic profession but it was also a hard one. He had lost count how many of his fellow cowboys had been either crippled or killed since his first cattle drive. It was a job that did not take prisoners.

  One mistake was usually your last.

  Hammer looked up at the rowdy saloon he was quickly approaching when the large window beside him shattered into a million fragments as a man hurtled through it. The startled cowboy swung on his heels and stared at the bleeding man on the ground. He pushed the swing doors apart and entered the saloon.

  The smell of stale sweat and other bodily fluids greeted the cowboy. He rubbed his nose and squinted into the dimly lit room as men fought feverishly. He knew most of them.

  ‘Hi, boys,’ Hammer called out and made his way to the long bar counter.

  The words had no sooner left his lips than a chair flew just past his head. Hammer ducked as the chair skidded along the bar counter and crashed through a pyramid of whiskey glasses. Shattering glass rang out like the tolling of bells. Hammer stepped toward the counter as the battle continued. He touched his hat brim at the nervous bartender.

  ‘Howdy, barkeep.’ He smiled. ‘Have you seen the hombre in charge of these galoots?’

  ‘You mean that old drunk cowboy with the handlebar moustache?’ the shaking man answered as his unblinking eyes watched the fight that had already destroyed half the saloon’s furniture and looked as though it was hell-bent on turning what was left into matchwood. ‘That bastard bought his boys a whiskey each and then downed a whole bottle himself. These critters have bin fighting all night.’

  ‘Any notion where I might find the drunk with the handlebar moustache?’ Hammer asked as he tossed a coin into the fearful bartender’s hands. ‘I’m looking for him.’

  The bartender stared long and hard at the cowboy.

  ‘Why’d a nice clean-cut hombre like you want to find him for?’ he asked. ‘You don’t wanna go getting mixed up with their kind. They’re cowboys.’

  A scream drew both men’s eyes to the corner. They watched as one of the saloon’s patrons was lifted off the ground and tossed into an upright piano. White and black keys flew up into the air as the body crashed into it. A morbid tune rang out.

  ‘Cowboys?’ Hammer jested. ‘Scum of the earth.’

  ‘Damn right, son.’ The bartender nodded at Hammer. ‘Look at them. They’re animals, boy. The same thing happens every time they bring a herd in. You don’t wanna get mixed up with their kind.’

  The Cheyenne cowboy nodded. ‘You’re right. I’d best go before I get hurt. You don’t happen to know where the drunk with the handlebar moustache went, do you?’

  ‘He left with Montana Mae,’ the bartender replied. ‘They were both liquored up and panting like hound dogs, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Tom sure must have bin real liquored up to go with Montana,’ Hammer grinned at the bartender. He touched his hat brim and was making his way back to the swing doors when two brawling men crashed into him. The Cheyenne cowboy staggered as one of the bruised and bloodied men held the other by his bandanna and then sent a fist into his teeth. The sound of breaking ivory filled the room as the man looked at Hammer and smiled.

  ‘Howdy, Cheyenne.’ His fellow drover grinned through blood and bruises before releasing his grip on his sleeping opponent. ‘Ain’t seen you for ages. Where’ve you bin?’

  ‘Sleeping.’ Hammer smiled and watched as his saddle pal raced back into the heart of the fight. He looked at the confused bartender and shrugged. ‘We go to the same church and sing in the choir,’ he lied.

  After watching Hammer exit the debris-littered saloon the bartender rolled up his sleeves, picked up a three-foot-long length of lumber and gripped it in his hands. The bartender strode along through the debris behind the counter and emerged amid the continuing destruction.

  ‘Will you boys quit busting up my saloon?’ he yelled at the brawling men. There was no response to his plea. Men kept fighting and remnants of furniture kept flying in all directions.

  The bartender lowered his head and started to snort like a raging bull. His hands tightened their grip on the length of lumber.

  ‘To hell with it,’ he yelled as he ploughed into the bloodied cowboys.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The morning sun bathed the six riders in its golden glow as the half-dozen men studied the towering edifice before them with calculating eyes. One by one the horsemen moved the noses of their mounts closer to the fragrant structure and looked into its hollow depths. Emmett Holt dismounted and handed his reins to Jim Dante before dusting his trail gear down with his gloved hands. The outlaw leader pointed up at Gibbs and then aimed his trigger finger at the water pump beside a long trough.

  ‘Fill the canteens, Bart,’ he muttered before hearing the solid steps of the liveryman walking out of the shadows behind his broad shoulders. ‘I don’t want us wasting time when it’s time for us to leave this town.’

  Gibbs looped his leg over the neck of his mount and then dropped to the ground as he saw the blacksmith striding out into the morning light. He turned to the rest of the horseman and gritted his teeth.

  ‘You heard Emmett,’ he snarled. ‘Fill the canteens.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Clem Barker the blacksmith asked as his eyes studied the six men who confronted him. ‘I don’t recall there being a circus due in Dodge.’

  The remark would usually have been enough for Holt to draw his gun and start shooting but the hired gunman was too slick for that. He wanted his men to keep a low profile until they had fulfilled their work in Dodge City. No amount of insults would arouse his infamous anger. Somehow Holt forced a smile while turning to face Barker.

  ‘I want these nags fed and watered, amigo,’ he growled.

  Barker walked his bulk around the six horses. With every step his large head nodded. These were no normal saddle horses, he thought. These were top grade animals and far too good for the bunch who seemed to own them. He paused beside Holt and rubbed his sweating chins.

  ‘Where’d you get this horseflesh?’ he asked the outlaw.

>   Holt stared from under the brim of his hat at the man who glistened in the powerful rays of the sun. He had never seen so much muscle in one place before.

  ‘Why’d you ask, amigo?’

  One of Barker’s busted eyebrows rose as he looked at the obviously dangerous leader of the bunch. ‘I was just gonna tell you that I’ve never seen such fine horseflesh in years.’

  Barker paused for a moment and then added to his statement. He swung his body around and pointed inside his stable.

  ‘Mind you, one of the hotel boys brung a mighty fine flame-faced stallion in here last night,’ he sighed. ‘That horse is bigger than any of these animals but I reckon your horses could outrun the critter.’

  Holt looked to where the stableman was indicating and without uttering a word he strode into the shadows and then halted. His eyes adjusted to the far darker interior of the livery as he searched the stalls for the distinctive flame-faced horse the liveryman had mentioned.

  Then he saw it.

  ‘Fine animal, ain’t it?’ Barker said as he moved to Holt’s shoulder and tucked his thumbs into his broad black leather belt. ‘The boy told me it belongs to a cowboy.’

  Holt glanced at Barker. ‘A cowboy, you say?’

  Barker nodded. ‘Yep. The kid reckoned it was the critter they call the Cheyenne cowboy. I ain’t ever heard of him but the boy said he was famous. Have you heard of him?’

  Emmett Holt sighed heavily. ‘I’ve heard of him.’

  The blacksmith took his eyes from the handsome mount and stared at the outlaw. He tilted his head slightly.

  ‘You sound kinda regretful, mister,’ he noted.

  Holt drew breath through his gritted teeth. ‘You might say that. I’ve run up against the Cheyenne cowboy before. That young bastard is damn good with his six-shooter considering he’s just a cowpuncher.’

  ‘Did you tussle with him?’ Barker’s curiosity was growing.

  ‘Yep.’ Holt turned on his heels, then pulled a cigar from his pocket and bit off its black tip. He spat at the dirt floor and placed the smoke between his lips.

  ‘You sound like a critter that got himself bad memories of this Cheyenne fella,’ Barker said as he watched the grim-faced outlaw signal for his men to lead their horses into the livery stable.

  Emmett Holt pulled a golden eagle from his vest pocket and tossed the coin into the muscular hands. ‘We got unfinished business, amigo.’

  Barker bit the gleaming golden coin and then slipped it into his apron pocket. ‘How long do you wanna have me look after these horses of yours?’

  Holt struck a match and slowly sucked its flame into the fat cigar. He held it in his lungs thoughtfully and then started to walk back toward the sunlight. Smoke trailed over his shoulder as he reached the blinding rays of the street.

  ‘How long do you want me to tend to these animals?’ Barker repeated as the rest of the gang followed their leader. ‘This twenty-dollar piece is enough to last the longest time. How long do you figure?’

  Holt glanced over his shoulder. His ice-cold stare caught the large liveryman by surprise. For the first time in a long while, Barker was afraid.

  ‘Just rub them nags down then water and feed them,’ the ruthless outlaw said through a cloud of smoke. ‘I’ll let you know when we’re leaving town when I know myself.’

  Barker nodded fearfully.

  Holt then raised his hand and added, ‘Which hotel is the cowboy staying at?’

  ‘The Deluxe,’ the large man answered.

  Holt nodded and then led his men out into the blinding light. Within seconds they were gone but it would take a lot longer for the blacksmith to forget the fear that Holt’s eyes had burned into him.

  ‘Who the hell is this Cheyenne cowboy critter, Emmett?’ Wes Harper asked the tall emotionless Holt as they strode along the sun-drenched street toward the heart of Dodge.

  ‘He made a name for himself killing three of my boys last summer, Wes,’ Holt snarled as his teeth tightened on the cigar. ‘Got himself in all the papers.’

  The men flanking the tall outlaw could hear the anger in Holt’s voice as he recalled his previous encounter with the man known as the Cheyenne cowboy.

  ‘What you figuring on doing, Emmett?’ Gibbs asked as they all stepped up on the boardwalk outside a hardware store.

  Holt glanced at Gibbs but did not reply.

  CHAPTER SIX

  With each passing second Dodge was becoming busier. Yet within the confines of the narrow passageways of the Rialto Boarding House it remained eerily dark. The Rialto was a place where few cared for luxuries like windows for there was little any of the females within its walls had time to look at besides the money in their clients’ hands.

  Hammer found it hard to believe that it was early morning as he ascended the creaking stairs to the second floor. With every room door closed, it was darker than an outside privy on a moonless night. He paused at the end of the corridor and screwed up his eyes until they finally managed to focus.

  He counted eight doors. Four to either side. By the sound of laughter, giggling and satisfied male grunts that emanated along the dark passage, the cowboy knew he was close to his trail boss.

  Hammer started to walk slowly. With every step he tilted his head and listened for a clue as to McGee’s location. After he had travelled to virtually the end of the narrow confines of the hastily constructed corridor he heard the familiar sound of a hacking cough.

  The Cheyenne cowboy paused and strained to hear voices more clearly when suddenly the room door abruptly opened and the barrel of a Remington .44 was pushed up into his throat.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the growling voice asked as he heard the distinctive sound of the gun’s hammer being cocked under his chin. ‘Answer me before I blow your head off your shoulders. Are you some kinda pervert? The kind that gets their kicks from listening to folks enjoying themselves? Are you?’

  It was the voice of McGee. A rather exhausted voice, but it definitely belonged to the trail boss. Hammer swallowed hard as he felt the cold steel push his head back under his Stetson.

  ‘It’s me, Tom,’ he croaked and wished it was not quite so dark along the corridor. ‘I got me a favour to ask you.’

  The gun was lowered as quickly as it had been raised. Hammer could smell McGee’s liquor-flavoured breath on his face as the trail boss moved closer.

  ‘Gat?’ McGee groaned. ‘Is that you?’

  Hammer nodded his head and carefully pushed the six-shooter aside. ‘It sure is, Tom. Just little old me.’

  ‘What you doing creeping up and down here for?’ McGee asked as he made his way back into the dimly lit room and rested his naked backside on the bed.

  ‘Can I pull the drapes, Tom?’ Hammer asked. ‘The room is real dark.’

  The veteran cowpuncher glanced over his shoulder at the snoring female and winced. ‘Leave the damn drapes the way they are, Gat. I don’t feel strong enough to cast my eyes on Montana Mae right now.’

  Even the half-light could not hide the truth from the cowboy’s eyes. The female was not exactly easy to look at when she was covered in thick make-up and doused in perfume but after romping around on her well-exercised bed, and covered in sweat, her own as well as her client’s, she was not easy to look at.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Hammer asked his boss as he glanced around the pitiful room and the few personal items belonging to Mae. ‘Me and the boys noticed you’ve bin a tad tense the last couple of days.’

  McGee glanced up at the cowboy.

  ‘Whatever it is that you want, Gat,’ he growled wearily, ‘it better be good. Damn good. I’m tuckered but I still got enough vinegar in me to kick your sorrowful ass.’

  ‘I was wondering if you might be hiring new hands for the ride back home, Tom,’ the cowboy said above the loud snores of the female.

  McGee laughed and shook his head. ‘Only you would choose to ask that question at a time like this, Gat. I’ve just strained every muscle I’ve got and you come asking dumb qu
estions like that.’

  ‘I had to ask you before you left Dodge, Tom,’ Hammer explained. ‘You see, I won’t be going back with you this time, boss.’

  The trail boss sat upright and looked at his top wrangler with a stunned expression carved into his face. ‘What you mean, Gat? You’re quitting?’

  Hammer walked over to the window and pulled the thin drape across. Sunlight filled the room as the cowboy stared out at the back streets.

  ‘I’ve got me enough saved now, Tom,’ he told the older man. ‘More than enough to buy me that little spread I’ve bin hankering over for the last few years.’

  The room fell into silence for a few moments. The only sound was coming from the other engaged rooms along the passageway. The Cheyenne cowboy just stared out of the window and listened as his friend and mentor struck a match and the room filled with the aroma of cigar smoke.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Gat,’ McGee finally said. ‘You’ve bin like a son to me. You’re the only one in the bunch that I’ve always bin able to trust.’

  ‘Likewise, Tom.’ The cowboy turned and walked through the smoke back to the open door. His left hand gripped its woodwork as he paused and looked down upon his boss. ‘But it’s time for me to try and start up my own spread. If I fail I’ll come begging for my job back.’

  McGee looked up through the grey smoke between them.

  ‘You’ll not fail, boy.’ He grinned. ‘When you set your mind to something, you never fail.’

  The Cheyenne cowboy grinned back. ‘I appreciate that.’

  The older man covered his modesty with part of the bed sheet and tapped the ash from his cigar. He raised his eyebrows high and smiled at Hammer.

  ‘Why’d you ask if I was hiring, Gat?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a young kid over in the hotel,’ Hammer said. ‘He wants to be a cowboy more than anything, Tom. I told him that I’d put a good word in. He’s keen and I’ve got me a feeling that he’ll be a real good cowboy given a chance.’