Colorado Crossfire Page 7

  “Sure!” Lefty said.

  “The judge in Wichita said we might get a job like that up here,” Kiowa said.

  The man grinned. He now understood who had given them the advice to move west. “Sounds like y’all are getting some real experience at being strangers in town.”

  “Yeah,” Lefty said in a surly tone.

  “I’ll tell you what,” their fellow prisoner said. “My boss is gonna go my bail pretty quick. I’ll let you fellers meet him.”

  The idea excited Lefty and Kiowa. They had to wait until that afternoon until the jail deputy brought a man back to the cells. The new arrival peered through the bars. “Did it again, huh, Tom?”

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I had a snootfull.” He gestured to Kiowa and Lefty. “Here’s a coupla boys you might be inter’sted in meeting, Jim. They’re hunters.”

  Jim Bigelow looked at the youngsters. He could tell they were more used to the wild country than towns. They looked tough and competent in spite of their lack of years. “Hunters, are you?”

  “We sure are,” Lefty said.

  Kiowa nodded.

  “Where you boys from?”

  “Oklahoma Territory,” Kiowa said.

  “Fort Sill to be exact,” Lefty said.

  “The railroad I’m working for can use some hunters to keep the work crew in fresh meat,” Bigelow said. “Like to give the job a try?”

  “Sure!” Lefty exclaimed.

  “We won’t be making no deals ’til you prove yourselves,” Bigelow said. “You got to show us you can go out and bag some game first.”

  Kiowa grinned. “Easy enough.”

  Bigelow nodded. “It’d seem you’re right.” He turned to the deputy. “I’ll go their bail, too.”

  “They don’t have no bail,” the lawman explained. “You’ll have to pay a fine to cut their sentence.”

  Bigelow sighed. “Alright. I’ll pay their fine.”

  It was to be the first of many times.

  When Lefty and Kiowa arrived at the worksite, they wasted no time, after settling in, to leave camp and head out to do what they did best: tracking and bagging game. A four hour trip produced an elk that first day. Subsequent trips brought in more fresh meat until the cook had to slow them down. Without time to properly salt and dry the deer and elk, the harried cook was getting more than could be consumed before spoiling.

  It was just as well. A new deadlier task came up. A rival railroad, trying to thwart the efforts of the Northwest and Canadian, sent hired guns in to disrupt the operation by ambushing and murdering a few men. This particular adventure began with a predawn attack on the camp.

  Lefty was sleeping inside the box car used by the guards as their home-on-wheels. This was no more than a conventional cargo carrier converted to hold bunk frames on which the men laid out blankets. They stored their gear beneath the bunks. The laborers lived in a three-tiered vehicle that was much more crowded. Kiowa, with his usual aversion to beds and sleeping indoors unless it was absolutely necessary, had bedded down a few yards away.

  The assault broke out with wild, rapid shooting that splattered slugs of various calibers across the width and breadth of the camp. Most of the workmen woke up in a surprised stupor, but the guards, being professional gunmen, reacted quickly.

  Grabbing their weapons, they came out of their bunkhouse returning fire at the flashes in the darkness. Lefty followed numbly, worried about Kiowa. But the Indian boy had been awakened already by naked instinct a few minutes before the shooting broke out. When the battle started, he was heading for the boxcar.

  “We oughta get some dawg,” she said joining Lefty. “They’d keep bad folks from sneaking up on us like that.”

  “I heard they used to have some,” Lefty said. “But them dawgs got et up by Injuns.”

  Kiowa shrugged. “That’s what folks do when they get hungry.”

  Jim Bigelow, noticing them, yelled over, “Hey, you two! Don’t just stand there. C’mon! And keep down for the love o’ God!”

  Crouching, they joined the guard chief by a stack of firewood near the cookhouse. “What can we do for you?” Lefty asked.

  “Christ!” Bigelow said, rolling his eyes in disgust. “You might start by shooting back at the sonofabitches who’re trying to kill us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kiowa said.

  The two boys, unable to see much in the dark, fired slowly and methodically in the direction of the source of incoming fire. They continued the action for a half-hour. By then the mountain sunrise, late and slow as always in high country, finally began to shed light across the scene of the battle.

  “Holy Mother o’ God!” Lefty exclaimed.

  The place was a shambles. Several bodies were sprawled out in the camp. One of the Chinese cooks was next to the rolling kitchen. A laborer, who evidently had run out of luck while trying to see what was going on from the bunk car, lay where he’d fallen when hit by a stray bullet.

  Now the firing increased.

  Jim Bigelow, better able to grasp the situation in the daylight, quickly gathered up his scattered men. Having figured out where the heaviest concentration of drygulchers was, he led the guards – including Lefty and the Kiowa Kid – on a counterattack that swept around one side of the camp and hit the ambushers from the flank.

  The last part of the fight was quick but deadly. Three of the railroad guards gave their lives for the Northwest and Canadian, but a full dozen of the hired guns went to their Maker in the name of the Colorado Shortline Railway System. The survivors among the gunslingers beat a hasty retreat from the place and made for safety on the other side of the ridgeline.

  Bigelow, madder than hell, wasn’t about to call it a day. Putting Lefty and Kiowa at the front of the pack, he and the other guards followed along as the two hunters tracked the escapees through the mountain country. It was ridiculously easy for the young pair. They were able to move rapidly, finally catching the unwary gunman in a box canyon some five miles from the Northwest and Canadian’s camp.

  It was in this ensuing battle that Lefty McNally and the Kiowa Kid killed their first men.

  Lefty, leading the way, stumbled into a stand of tall bramble bushes. He fought his way through the pulling, grasping branches until he broke through into a small open area. He stopped short at the sight of a gunmen who had been listening to his approach. Lefty was so shocked and surprised that he couldn’t move. But the other man, an experienced hired gun, knew what he had to do. He fired two quick shots but missed.

  Lefty didn’t consciously and deliberately shoot back. It was pure instinct that caused the pull on the trigger. He’d made many instinctively aimed shots before while hunting. The skill was even sharper with fear and alarm coursing through his body.

  He didn’t miss.

  “Oh!”

  Lefty, for the rest of his life, would never forget the simple exclamation that the man made before pitching face first to the ground.

  Another shot blasted. Lefty whirled around to see that Kiowa had fired his carbine. A man the young Indian had hit staggered out of the nearby brush and collapsed at their feet.

  The two friends looked at each other, silently noting that they had just stepped across a great gulf into another world. Lefty started to speak but another explosion of gunfire erupted. It quickly died down and was followed by a few seconds of silence.

  “Lefty! Kiowa!” Jim Bigelow’s voice boomed out in the canyon.

  “Yeah,” Lefty shouted. “We’re over here.”

  There was some disturbance in the brambles, then the head guard appeared. “The fight’s over. We got ’em all on the other side.” He looked at the two dead men. “I see you was occupied over here.”

  “Yeah,” Lefty said numbly.

  Bigelow stared at the youngsters for several moments before he finally understood. “The first ones?”

  Kiowa nodded. “I’m a warrior.”

  Bigelow shrugged. “Let’s go on back now. We’ve got a railroad to build.”

  A
fter that, Lefty and Kiowa continued their hunting duties. There were no more attacks and the work on building the railroad continued uninterrupted except for weather and periodic shortages of material. The two were happy with the job until a rumor of gold and silver in the Montana Rockies popped up. Their old dream of becoming rich was renewed and became so strong they could no longer be contented with the bleak prospects of professional hunting. They took their leave, collected their wages, and headed for the hills.

  They spent several long, hard years in the mountains. It was a never ending cycle of laboring for a grubstake, hacking away at the rocky soil until they were broke, then once again searching out jobs to earn some needed cash. The pair even worked for a couple of mining companies, but those enterprises went broke.

  Lefty and Kiowa joined the rough-and-tumble world of mountain men. The young men took up serious drinking, dance hall women, gambling, smoking, chewing, and any other bad habit that made itself known to them.

  There was also more killing.

  The two faced down claim jumpers, robbing desperadoes, and trouble seekers. There were no laws for protection, only their own guns and courage. And between Irish and Indian blood, they were a formidable pair.

  Now and then, when their fortunes were particularly good, they made forays into bigger towns. But during those urban adventures they always ended up in the local lockup. Lefty and Kiowa would serve their time, then head back to the mountains to renew their spirits and try to sort things out.

  Finally, after things had gotten particularly bad, they heard about scouting jobs with the army in Wyoming. This involved guiding a surveying mission conducted by military engineers with an escort of cavalry. It would have been a rough job at best, but with marauding Sioux adding to the complications – and a bad-tempered colonel – they were kept constantly on the move. Lefty and Kiowa scouted out every canyon, valley, and mountain top. The hostile Indians shot at them and chased them, making the job harrowing and dangerous. Six months of physical discomfort, peril, lousy food, long hours, and bawlings out by the colonel finally came to an end and they were paid off. With coins jingling in their pockets, Lefty and Kiowa headed for the delights offered them in Helena, Montana.

  It was here that they were rescued by their old friend Jim Bigelow – now a chief of railroad detectives – and offered a bounty hunting job.

  This was a chance to earn some pretty good money and they intended to make the best of it. Lefty summed it up with that statement, “Well do or die this time, ol’ friend.”

  Kiowa, a bit more grim, had replied, “If Milo Paxton ever gets wind o’ what we’re up to, that’s exactly what’ll happen to us.”

  Seven

  The drunken prospector sat in the corner of the crude barroom, sloppily playing his harmonica. He was an old man, grizzled and bearded. Completely oblivious to his boisterous surroundings, he tapped his foot on the dirt floor in time with a tune that only he could recognize.

  The saloon, one of a dozen log buildings in a small mountain settlement called El Campo, was crowded with rough-looking men. Most smelled of sweat and wood smoke. Looking for some relaxation and human company, they’d come out of the woods from practicing their various trades of hunting, trapping, or prospecting. One patron, however, followed an entirely different line of work.

  Tom Foyt, a member of the Milo Paxton Gang, was deeply involved in a game of draw poker illuminated in the pale light thrown out by a couple of lanterns slung from the ceiling. Foyt studied the cards in his hands, looking across the pasteboards at the four other players sitting with him around the roughly hewn table. He turned slightly and spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the earthen floor.

  “Damn!”

  “Well, Tom, what’re you gonna do?” a player asked. “Were real anxious to find out.”

  Another sitting with them grinned. “I need the money, Tom, or else I wouldn’t be a-rushing you like this.”

  “Let a man think, will you?” Foyt snapped. His slow mind worked to reach a decision. He attempted to slyly study the expressions on his opponents’ faces, but they were either emotionless or exhibiting happy confidence that could be nothing but bluffing. Foyt’s concentration was broken by the tuneless noise the old harmonica player was making. “Aw, shit!” he finally said, throwing the hand down. “I fold.”

  The others, wanting to see who won, quickly laid down their cards showing the hands they held. “Yahoo!” a member of the game shouted. “Look at this, boys.” He had spread out a hand that showed a pair of aces.

  “Goddamnit ,” Foyt said. His own two pair could have taken the pot. He looked over at the old man with the harmonica. “Hey, grandpa! That’s enough o’ that godamned mouth harp, hear?”

  The old man raised his head and displayed a near toothless snarl. “Go shit in your boots!”

  Foyt’s facial expression tightened and he got to his feet. He walked over where the prospector still puffed out a song unrecognizable to anyone else. The bandit grabbed the harmonica and walked to the door, kicking it open. He threw the instrument outside into the night with a vicious toss before turning and going back to the table. “Now maybe a man can think clear enough to play poker around here.”

  The ancient miner, his temper flaring through his drunkenness, struggled to his feet. He pointed a finger at Foyt, his mouth working to speak. But before he could express his outrage, the whiskey he’d consumed during the evening took its effect and he weaved a couple of times before slamming face-first onto the floor. Everyone laughed and the game resumed – for a moment.

  “Hey!”

  Lefty McNally stood in the door rubbing his forehead. He held the harmonica in his hand. “Who threw this mouth harp and hit me in the head?” When nobody paid any attention, he pounded on the door frame with his fist until all eyes were on him. “I asked who threw this mouth harp.”

  The Kiowa Kid, standing behind him, tugged at his arm. “I think it was an accident. Nobody could see us in the dark.”

  But Lefty’s Irish was up. “Folks shouldn’t sling things when they can’t see proper.” He took a deep breath and again bellowed, “Who threw this damn thing?”

  Foyt snickered. “Shut up, Lefty. It was me.”

  Kiowa leaned close to Lefty, whispering. “It’s Tom Foyt.”

  Lefty grinned. “Just who we’re looking for.” He glanced around the room, carefully noting all the occupants. Not expecting to see anyone sprawled on the floor, he gave the old prospector a second glance. This was more out of curiosity than concern. Noting there was no blood around, he quickly dismissed the sight. “And Foyt’s the only one I can see.”

  “That’s lucky for us, ain’t it?” Kiowa remarked.

  “Hell, no! If they was more, it’d speed things up,” Lefty said. He shrugged. “But we got to make do.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  Lefty thought for a couple of moments. “Yeah. I’ll go on over and pick a fight over this here mouth harp. Once we get Foyt outside, we’ll do a job on him.”

  “We’ll arrest him,” Kiowa said.

  “Yeah. Right after you come up behind him and give him a rap on the noggin with that Colt o’ yours. Then we’ll take him down to where we can meet Jim Bigelow and Russ Wilson.”

  “Maybe we could wait for ’em here,” Kiowa said. “Are you crazy?” Lefty asked. “Where’re we gonna hold a pris’ner, huh? Think about that.”

  “You’re right,” Kiowa said.

  “You bet I am!” said Lefty.

  “Go on then. I’ll be outside.” Kiowa took a cautious look around to satisfy himself that he could leave Lefty alone for a few moments. Then he went back through the door, going out into the dark.

  Lefty assumed a frown. He walked over to the poker players and dropped the harmonica on the table. “Ain’t you gonna say you’re sorry?” he said to Tom Foyt.

  Annoyed, Foyt looked up from the cards. “For what?”

  “For hitting me on the head with that damn mouth harp,” Lefty said.

&n
bsp; “Well, I ain’t sorry and get the hell out of here,” Foyt growled. “Between that ol’ drunk on the floor and you, I’m getting mighty tired o’ dumb shits interrupting my game.”

  “Maybe you’d like to fight about it,” Lefty said.

  Foyt quickly drew his pistol and pointed it straight at Lefty’s head. “If you don’t get outta here, I’m gonna shoot you.”

  “That wouldn’t be a fair fight,” Lefty said.

  “Nobody’d hang me for shooting some asshole that bothered me during a poker game,” Foyt pointed out.

  Lefty knew that Foyt was capable of cold-blooded murder, but he doubted if he’d do it then and there. So he assumed a sneer. “Too damn askeered to fistfight over, it, huh?”

  Foyt cocked the hammer. The click sounded loud even over the conversation. Lefty suddenly doubted his assumption about Foyt’s intentions, as all talk ceased at the noise. Every man in the place waited to see what was going to happen.

  “I reckon I’ll go outside,” Lefty said.

  “Now that’s real smart,” Foyt said.

  Lefty went through the door and walked to the end of the building where Kiowa waited. “He pulled his iron on me.”

  “Then let’s arrest him,” Kiowa suggested.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We’ll march in there and throw down on him,” Kiowa said. “Then take him out to his horse and head back to Dawson’s Meadow. We ought to meet Bigelow and Wilson on the way.”

  “Yeah,” Lefty said. “After we turn Foyt over to ’em, we can turn around and start looking for the others.”

  “You ready?” Kiowa asked pulling his pistol free from his holster.

  “Damn right,” Lefty said also drawing.

  Together they barged back into the primitive saloon. Their sudden appearance caused an abrupt outcry as the occupants of the place jumped up and scrambled to get out of the way.

  “Tom Foyt, damn your eyes!” Lefty yelled. “You’re under arrest.”

  Foyt, his mouth open in astonishment, stared at the pair. “Have you two turned into starpackers?”

  “Nope,” Lefty said. “But we’re arresting you just the same.”