Cheyenne Cowboy Page 6

  The jangling spurs nagged at his mind. He had heard something like it before but could not recall where or when. The cowboy stroked his throat thoughtfully as he studied the men still clad in their long dust coats and listened to their spurs ringing out.

  It was like the tolling of deathly bells.

  ‘Who the hell are those critters?’ he whispered low and quietly as he continued to observe them. ‘They sure don’t look like they’re here to start quoting from the scriptures.’

  Curiosity still nagged at Hammer’s craw. He knew that men who looked the way those men looked usually rode on the wrong side of the law. Their long dust coats reached down to their boots and hid a multitude of sins from eagle-eyed onlookers.

  Had Hammer been closer to them he might have recognized Emmett Holt as the man he had bested months earlier. Yet the shimmering heat haze and distance made it impossible for him to see any of their faces clearly.

  Then his eyebrows rose as he noticed where they were heading. The town was full of whore houses of various shapes and sizes but the most famous of them all was the China Doll. It was reputed to be the first permanent structure to be erected in Dodge after the barber had laid claim to the prime site. The China Doll was different to all of its competitors and boasted to have nothing but beautiful oriental females within its four walls.

  That was where the jangling spurs were heading toward, Hammer noted with a blushing smile. Maybe his suspicions were ill-founded. Maybe all the riders had were burning desires to scratch an itch.

  As the six figures disappeared into the China Doll, Hammer turned and entered the café again. He resumed his place at the window table and hung his hat on his holstered .45.

  The cowboy did not know it but the man who led his five followers into the China Doll was the very same man who had tried to kill him months earlier when Hammer had innocently found himself in the middle of a blazing gun battle.

  ‘Pie, Cheyenne honey?’ Betsy asked him from the café counter.

  He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. As the well-rounded female placed the small plate with the generous portion of apple pie upon its blue design, his mind flashed with memories yet he still did not connect the mysterious leader of the newly arrived riders with the bloody fight months earlier.

  ‘Is it OK, Cheyenne?’ the female asked pointing at the apple pie.

  ‘If it tastes half as good as it looks, it’ll be great, ma’am.’ Hammer picked up the fork and then paused as more thoughts filled his already confused mind.

  He wondered why everyone seemed to be calling him by his nickname of Cheyenne. They had never done that before in Dodge, he thought. Then it started to dawn on him.

  The banker had mentioned the gunfight before presenting him with the bounty money. The bellhop over in the Deluxe Hotel had also made it obvious that he had read about not only the incident but also about him. Hammer remembered that the newspaper men had asked him several questions after the carnage when Holt had made his escape.

  Hammer recalled that he had told the eager journalists after the deadly gunfight that he was from Cheyenne and was a cowboy taking a herd to Dodge. He had not read any of their writings because he had to return to the cattle drive.

  ‘Hey, Betsy,’ he said as he slid the fork through the mouth-watering pie. ‘Did you read about me in the local newspapers a few months back?’

  ‘I sure did.’ She nodded. ‘You were front-page news, Cheyenne. They made you sound like Wild Bill Hickok. Didn’t you read any of the stories?’

  ‘Nope, I’ve bin kinda busy bringing a herd of steers to market, ma’am.’ Hammer chewed the pie thoughtfully. Finally he began to put two and two together. The journalists must have turned him into some sort of hero and manufactured the fight into a valiant and heroic act. ‘I ain’t seen a newspaper in months.’

  ‘You sure must be brave, Cheyenne.’ She smiled widely and walked back to her counter. ‘Probably the bravest man ever to eat my pie.’

  ‘A varmint don’t have to be brave to eat your pie.’ Hammer smiled as he devoured the pie. ‘Even a yellow belly could manage the job.’

  Betsy was not listening. She opened the door of her stove and pulled out a tray with even more fragrant pies upon it.

  ‘Did you say something, Cheyenne honey?’ Betsy wondered from the rear of the café.

  A wry smile etched his face as he swallowed the pie and carved another mouthful out with his fork. He turned his head and looked at Betsy.

  ‘This is the best apple pie I’ve ever tasted, ma’am,’ he laughed. ‘Delicious. Real delicious.’

  ‘Keep eating,’ Betsy chuckled as she watched the young man with more than a little interest. ‘It might just put some hair on your chest, Cheyenne.’

  He nodded in agreement. Hair on his chest would at least be a start and once there they might even spread up to his face, he thought.

  ‘Will you bring me another slice of mighty fine pie please, Betsy?’ he asked as his fork scraped the plate in search of its last remnants.

  The female cut another portion of the pie and carefully placed it on to a small plate. ‘You want some coffee to wash it down?’

  Hammer raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d be obliged, Betsy.’

  The friendly female walked to the table and placed the plate before him. She then placed the coffee mug beside it and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Anything else you want, Cheyenne?’ she purred like a large kitten. ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘No thanks.’ He naïvely smiled and picked up his fork. ‘This’ll be fine, Betsy.’

  ‘I was afraid of that.’ She exhaled and walked away from the window table.

  Hammer stared out into the bright street as horses and other forms of transport passed. Then he remembered the jangling spurs that had attracted his attention. He rubbed his smooth chin and thought about Holt again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Darkness had come swiftly to Dodge City. Less than thirty minutes after the blazing sun had set the entire town was bathed in the eerie hue of night. At one time this was a subtle signal for terrified men to huddle together in caves for fear of encountering the nocturnal creatures that roamed after sundown in search of their prey.

  Yet few of the thousands of folks in Dodge even noticed the transition from day to night. Theirs was a well-rehearsed acceptance of the inevitable and each knew how to welcome the coming of sundown without fearing it. Every street lantern was lit and the majority of store fronts spilled lamplight across the sandy streets. Dodge City was said to be one of those rare places in the Wild West where some people did not sleep. Poker games had been known to go on for weeks or even longer. But even though fear had been replaced by apathy there was still good reason for the people of Dodge to be wary of night.

  For death awaited the unwary in the shadows which even coal-tar lantern light could not penetrate. Dodge City defiantly glowed like a beacon in an otherwise dark land and lured the good and the bad alike into its web of endless intrigue.

  Farnum Foster locked the door of his bank as a team of muscular stonemasons began unloading their wagon in preparation for the night’s work. The banker watched as the men unloaded blocks of masonry to add to the building’s walls.

  He quickened his pace and encouraged the pair of heavily laden clerks on toward the Cattleman Club. ‘Hurry up, boys. The quicker we get this money to the club the quicker you can go home.’

  The bank clerks carried the day’s takings across the street toward the Cattleman Club. They walked down the dimly lit alley to the rear door of the club. At the rear entrance the chairman of the club ushered them into the structure’s ornate interior and along a corridor to where the huge safe stood between two pillars.

  The bank employees placed the bank takings into the safe and watched as Silas Chester locked the five-foot high safe back up. Foster patted the clerks on their backs.

  ‘That’s fine, boys,’ Foster told them. ‘You get off home now. Be here at nine in the morning.’

  The y
oung men nodded and left before the banker thought of something else for them to do.

  ‘You trust them young ‘uns?’ Chester asked the banker as they began to retrace their steps back to the alley.

  ‘Sure do, Chester,’ Foster replied. ‘They’re kin.’

  Upon reaching the alley Farnum Foster accepted the receipt from his old pal and placed it into his billfold. The banker paused as Chester locked the side metal door. They strolled back toward the amber illuminated main street and stopped to look at the bank. The stone-block walls were already half built.

  ‘When will the reconstruction of the bank be completed, Foster?’ Silas Chester asked the banker. ‘I reckon that will be the best bank in the territory by the time it’s finished.’

  Foster looked at the chairman of the Cattleman Club and shrugged as he slid the billfold back into his deep pocket.

  ‘They estimated it will take a month. It can’t be soon enough for me though, Silas.’ He sighed as he watched Chester resting his knuckles on his wide hips. ‘This is most bothersome having to bring the day’s takings over here every day for safe-keeping. Having to depend on the Cattleman Club makes me nervous.’

  ‘It’ll be worth it,’ Chester smiled.

  ‘I know but it makes me nervous having to cross the street with all that cash, Silas,’ Foster admitted.

  Wanting to take Foster’s mind off his precious bank, Chester rested a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder as they walked down through the strange amber light that cascaded from all sides on the long thoroughfare.

  ‘You need to take your mind off it, Foster.’

  The banker nodded. ‘I’ll admit that it is wearing me down, Silas old friend.’

  Chester clapped his hands together.

  ‘Listen up. I hear they’ve got a fresh shipment of Scottish double malt whisky down in the Long Branch saloon, Farnum,’ he informed his friend enthusiastically.

  Foster suddenly looked less concerned as he stared up at his taller friend. He rubbed his mouth and then licked his lips.

  ‘Real Scottish whisky?’ he questioned. ‘Genuine real imported Scottish whisky?’

  ‘That’s what I’m told, Farnum.’ Chester tucked his thumbs in his vest pockets. ‘We could go and sample a few drams if you’re willing.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Foster grabbed Chester’s arm and started walking at pace in the direction of the town’s largest saloon. ‘Lead the way.’

  A lace drape was pulled aside in one of the second storey windows of the China Doll. As female hands clawed at him in a vain attempt to drag him back to the still-warm bed, Emmett Holt bit the tip off a cigar and placed the long weed in the corner of his mouth. He scratched a match and raised the flame and sucked. Holt inhaled deeply and then pushed the female aside.

  ‘You’ve done your business, woman,’ Holt snarled before turning and moving to the few bits of clothing he had removed before servicing the attractive lady of the night.

  ‘You go?’ The beautiful raven-haired female watched as he swiftly dressed and then buckled his gun belt. ‘Why you go? The night is still young. We can have much good time.’

  Holt placed his Stetson over his hair and glanced at her as he unbolted the door and pulled it open.

  ‘I’ve got business, gal,’ he sneered before tossing a golden coin into her hands. ‘Much obliged.’

  The near-naked female moved to the corridor and watched as the tall Holt beat his fist on the adjoining doors and shouted for his men to quit what they were doing.

  ‘I’ll wait for you galoots downstairs in the parlour,’ Holt shouted before racing down the steps and entering the dimly illuminated small room. He moved through the over-powering smell of stale perfume and raised a window blind. His eyes narrowed as he sucked more smoke into his lungs and watched the banker and chairman of the Cattleman as they entered the Long Branch saloon.

  ‘Dead on time,’ Holt muttered through the smoke, which filtered through what remained of his teeth. ‘Old Mason said they’d head to the Long Branch after they put the bank takings in the club safe.’

  Holt pulled the blind down to cover the window and then leaned on an upright piano. His bloodthirsty eyes stared at the neatly decorated parlour and the cheap oriental decorations which surrounded him. So far everything the crooked Dwire had told him was correct.

  The sound of spurs rang out behind Holt. The lethal hired gunman slowly raised his head up and glanced at them.

  Gibbs stopped just short of the outlaw leader.

  ‘Is it time, Emmett?’ he asked as he adjusted his hastily buttoned shirt.

  Holt glanced at his pocket watch and nodded. ‘Things are going exactly the way old Dwire said they would. That hombre is always hot on detail.’

  Both men looked to the sound of more spurs as the rest of the gang made their way down to the parlour and started plucking their dust coats off the wall pegs.

  ‘Can we trust that lawyer, Emmett?’ Gibbs asked. ‘That critter is slimy. I don’t trust him.’

  ‘All lawyers are like that, Bart,’ Holt said through cigar smoke as he pulled on his own long dust coat. ‘He wouldn’t try to cross us though. Not for the amount of cash he says is in that safe.’

  Gibbs still looked anxious. ‘He might be figuring on trying to get the reward money on our heads. Have you thought about that?’

  Holt looked around the faces of his men then shook his head. He pulled the cigar from his teeth and tapped its ash on to the threadbare carpet beneath their feet.

  ‘He wouldn’t do that, Bart,’ the outlaw leader said as he returned the cigar to his mouth and then quickly checked his weapons. ‘He’s too greedy. The collective price on our heads ain’t worth spit compared to the amount of cattle agent money he said was in the club safe. That combined with the takings from the bank add up to a tidy sum. Mason wouldn’t dream of crossing us. He knows I’d kill him if he did and he likes being alive way too much.’

  Bud Collins watched Holt checking his golden hunter again and moved toward the far taller man. ‘How come you keep looking at your watch, Emmett?’

  ‘Mason told me he’d arrange a buckboard for us to use to get them coffins to the rail tracks, Bud,’ Holt hissed like a rattler before sliding the timepiece back into his pocket. ‘I figure it’ll be arriving in about five minutes.’

  The six rough and ready men filed out of the China Doll on to the shadowy boardwalk. Holt raised a hand to his ear as he stood beneath a wall lantern, which was draped in red cloth.

  ‘What’s wrong, Emmett?’ Dante asked.

  Holt indicated to his men. ‘Listen up, boys. Do you hear that?’

  The noise, which was clearly made by hoofs, wheel rims and chains, grew louder.

  ‘I surely do know what that is,’ Gibbs nodded. ‘It’s a flatbed wagon.’

  Holt pulled his hat brim down and nodded as his teeth bit into the cigar. ‘Damn right. That’s the buckboard old Mason ordered for us if I ain’t mistaken.’

  ‘That lawyer thinks of everything.’ Wes Harper spat at the boardwalk.

  ‘Luckily for us,’ Gibbs sighed.

  Above the sound of the boisterous townsfolk the distinctive noise of a buckboard could be heard as it travelled toward them from the direction of the distant livery stable. The six men watched as the two-horse team pulled the hefty vehicle around the corner and travelled in front of the Long Branch. The burly blacksmith hauled back on the reins and stopped the wagon just as Holt led his five followers toward it from under the dark porch overhang.

  ‘Just like old Mason promised,’ Holt grinned. ‘A buckboard to help us take the coffins to the railhead. Damn, that old bastard’s good.’

  The muscular blacksmith looked around the street and then spotted the six men he had encountered hours earlier showered in the red glow of the China Doll. He looped the reins around the brake pole and gestured in Holt’s direction.

  ‘Are you the critters expecting this flatbed?’ Barker shouted at them as he slowly descended from the driv
er’s board. He clapped the dust from his large hands and squinted at the six men. ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Holt nodded.

  Clem Barker eyed them up and down. They still did not impress him for he had encountered their breed many times before. Men who lived and usually died by the gun were a pitiful bunch in his mind.

  ‘How long are you critters intending leaving them horses of yours with me, boys?’ The blacksmith stared at them and flexed his many muscles.

  ‘We’re leaving tonight, big man,’ Holt replied as he chewed on his cigar. ‘Get them ready for a long ride when you get back to your stable. We oughta be ready to mosey on out of Dodge in about an hour at most.’

  Barker looked slightly confused. He scratched his balding head and screwed up his eyes as he stood toe-to-toe with Holt. He frowned.

  ‘If you boys are intending riding out later, what in tarnation do you want this buckboard for?’ he asked the outlaw leader curiously. ‘That don’t make no sense.’

  For a few moments Holt said nothing as he paced around the large man and puffed on his cigar. Then he paused beside one of the sturdy horses and rattled its chains. His eyes darted at the liveryman.

  ‘We’re just doing the lawyer a favour, friend,’ Holt drawled as he stroked the long neck of the powerful horse.

  ‘You’re doing old Mason a favour, huh?’ Barker repeated the statement but did not believe a word of it.

  ‘We sure are,’ Dante piped up.

  ‘I heard you, sonny.’ Barker glared at the gunman and then returned his eyes to the obvious leader of the six men. ‘How long you known Mason?’

  ‘Years, friend. Mason Dwire asked us if we could help him out,’ Holt snarled.

  ‘He did?’ Barker watched as Holt nodded firmly.

  ‘He sure did. He wants us to help him move some boxes,’ Holt answered dryly as he blew smoke into the lantern-lit air. ‘We owe him a favour. After we’ve done that, we’re heading on our way.’