Colorado Crossfire Page 8

  Foyt responded by rapidly moving off the chair, then squatting down. At the same time, his pistol cleared leather and he quickly fired. The bullet zipped between Lefty and Kiowa. They flinched and returned fire. Two of the poker players got into the action out of self-defense more than anything else.

  The result was an undignified retreat for Lefty and Kiowa as they scurried for the door. They stopped for a moment to gather their wits and decide what their next move would be.

  “Now what?” Kiowa asked.

  “I’m thinking!” Lefty said irritably.

  But before he could reach any decisions, Foyt and several others rushed outside to continue the battle. Heavily outnumbered, the pair returned fire then rushed to the cover provided by the buildings across the way.

  Stopping, Lefty situated himself advantageously in the shadows provided by a log building. He had a good view, and he took careful aim at Tom Foyt and fired. The bullet missed the train robber, but plowed into the man next to him. Doubled over in a split second, the unfortunate fellow went down without a sound.

  Now more of the townspeople joined in the battle. Slugs pocked the log structure next to Lefty and Kiowa sending splinters flying through the air with a stinging force.

  “Ow! That hurts!” Lefty complained. He rubbed his face where some of the splinters had hit.

  “They’re ganging up on us, Lefty. Let’s go!”

  They hurried away into the darkness between the buildings. During a stop to fire back at their pursuers, their combined fusillade dumped another man to the dirt. His death enraged the other gunmen.

  Finally, Lefty and Kiowa were able to get into a nearby patch of woods without being seen. Knowing they were safe there in the darkness, they squatted in the deep shadows watching the enraged mob surge back and forth through El Campo looking for them.

  “We’re away clean now,” Lefty said. He quickly reloaded. “With all that noise and hullabaloo we oughta be able to mount up and ride away.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Kiowa said, shoving rounds into the cylinder of his pistol. “You’re forgetting our horses is over there by that damn saloon.”

  “Shit!”

  “We got to go back there and get ’em,” Kiowa said. “Maybe we can sort o’ move back through the buildings with the crowd without getting noticed.”

  “Sure! Particular with that damn Injun hair you like to wear,” Lefty said sarcastically. “You stand out like a dick in a whorehouse.”

  Kiowa ignored the remark. “Then, by God, we got to fight our way back there.”

  Lefty was thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe we could. We fought our way here didn’t we?”

  “Yeah.”

  “O’course we was kinda chased here though, wasn’t we?” Lefty said, having second thoughts. “There wasn’t nobody between us and here.”

  “We don’t have no choice, Lefty,” Kiowa said. “In a matter o’ time, they’re gonna stumble across us here. He took a deep breath. “You ready?”

  “No.”

  “Then, damn it, get ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  They started to make their move, but the mob suddenly quieted down. Kiowa grabbed Lefty’s arm. “Wait a minute. Maybe they’re figuring we’ve gone already.”

  “Could be,” Lefty said. “They don’t know our horses. If anybody happened to look at ’em, they’d just think they belonged to somebody else.”

  They waited for almost a half-hour. By then the activity on the street had tapered back to normal. Finally, in mutual consent, Lefty and Kiowa moved out of the cover of the forest and walked rapidly but quietly back through the helter-skelter of buildings that made up El Campo. When they reached the structure across from the saloon, they paused.

  “See anything?” Lefty asked.

  “Nope. Only a coupla fellers laying down in the street where we shot ’em.” Kiowa looked on the far side of the log barroom. “Our horses is still there.”

  “Let’s go!”

  Walking rapidly and nervously, the pair crossed the open space in front of the saloon. When they were halfway across the area, Tom Foyt and three other men appeared from the side of the building.

  “We’re bushwhacked!” Kiowa said through clenched teeth.

  Tom Foyt led the ambushers. “You bastards!” Foyt yelled. The train robber opened fire as did his companions.

  Both Lefty and Kiowa dove to the ground, drawing their pistols as they made the move. They did the only thing they could: return the fire fast and furiously.

  Their fusillades, the flying bullets in a tight swarm, slammed into Foyt and his friends. Looking like puppets jerked on strings, the outlaw and others staggered and jumped under the impact of slugs while the misses plowed into the log cabin behind them.

  The fight was over in no more than three seconds. The ensuing silence was as eerie as the sight of the four bodies sprawled grotesquely in the light coming from the windows.

  “I thought Foyt was smarter’n that,” Lefty said. Kiowa nodded.

  “Me, too. He musta figgered he had a hell of an edge with them pals o’ his to back him up.”

  Suddenly noise resumed as people streamed out of nearby buildings. They were infuriated by the sight of the dead men. Lefty punched Kiowa on the arm. “Let’s get out of here now!”

  They jumped up and sprinted for their horses. Reaching the animals, they untied them from the hitching rail and leaped into the saddles.

  But they weren’t fast enough.

  The mob surged toward them trapping the two between the street and the saloon. Hundreds of hands grasped at Lefty and Kiowa finally dragging them from their horses.

  “String ’em up!”

  “Damned murderers!”

  “Lynch ’em! Lynch ’em!”

  ~*~

  Jim Bigelow took a sip of the hot coffee. “How’s things going, Delmar?”

  Delmar Dawson, standing with one foot on the chair on the other side of the table from the railroad detectives Jim Bigelow and Russ Wilson, shrugged. “You know how it is with me, Jim.”

  “Yeah. I guess I do,” Bigelow said. “Anybody I know been through here?”

  “Could be,” Dawson said.

  Millie walked up to the table and sat a plate of beans and venison in front of the guests. Russ Wilson, lanky and dark, didn’t take his eyes off Dawson as he began to eat.

  “Y’all are lucky,” Dawson said pointing to the food. “That’s the last o’ that deer.”

  Bigelow pulled a spoon from the top of his boot. “Then I reckon I’ll take advantage o’ my good fortune. He scooped up some of the food and shoved it into his mouth. After chewing and swallowing he said, “Seen ol’ Milo Paxton lately?”

  “Ain’t seen Milo for near a year or a year and a half,” Dawson said. He knew what Bigelow’s interest would be in the train robber.

  “What about his boys?” Russ Wilson interjected between bites. “Ben Clackum? Tip Tyler? What about Tom Foyt?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe ol’ Pud Barlow’s stopped by for a visit, huh? Or Bill Hays?” Bigelow asked.

  Dawson shook his head. “Can’t say they have.”

  “I’ll bet Selby Turner and Craw Mindon has at least stayed long enough for a howdy and a meal,” Wilson casually remarked.

  “Not lately that I can recall, Russ,” Dawson said. Wilson smiled. “But Dean Orman came and stayed, didn’t he? We seen his grave marker.”

  “Yeah. Was he one o’ Milo Paxton’s boys?” Dawson asked with an innocent expression.

  “Could be,” Wilson said. “Who shot him?”

  Dawson grinned a little. “You know I can’t answer that.”

  Bigelow smiled back. “Russ knows you can’t. He was just curious if you would.”

  The two inquisitive detectives said nothing else until they finished the meal. “I could use a hot cup o’ coffee.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Wilson said.

  Dawson signaled to Millie who brought over a couple of cups.


  “Speaking of visitors,” Bigelow said. “I hear Lefty McNally and the Kiowa Kid has come up in the mountains.”

  Dawson began to add things up. It was obvious those two were working for the railroad in tracking down Paxton and his boys. “Yeah. They was here day afore yesterday. You looking for them?”

  “I got a job for ’em, that’s all,” Bigelow said. “We’re building a spur line into Idaho. The railroad could use a couple o’ hunters.”

  “If they come back, I’ll tell ’em,” Dawson said. “I think they said they was heading for El Campo. They might be going to do some prospecting. If so, you’d better catch ’em before they get up into the real high country or they’ll be outta reach all winter.”

  “Maybe we oughta go up there then,” Bigelow said. He glanced over at Wilson. “You reckon we might as well spend the night here, first?”

  “Sure,” Wilson said.

  “You got no objection to that, do you, Delmar?” Bigelow asked.

  “I’m always happy to accommodate the Northwest and Canadian, boys,” Dawson said. “You know that.”

  “Then we’ll bunk down in here,” Bigelow remarked. Dawson nodded. “You two know where to spread your bedrolls.”

  “Sure do,” Bigelow said. He stood up and stretched. “Well, it’s sure nice to be back up here where it’s nice and quiet.”

  Dawson nodded. “Yeah. There ain’t much going on.” he said thinking that pure hell would be flaming up in the Montana Rockies before another week went by.

  Eight

  The mob surged through El Campo, gathering in the area in front of the saloon. Lefty and Kiowa, in the tight clutches of a dozen men, were pushed and pummeled about by the milling crowd. The people howled in rage at the two prisoners.

  “String ’em up!”

  “Cold-blooded killers!”

  “Get a rope!”

  “No good damn gunslingers!”

  Although they hadn’t been disarmed in the excitement, neither Lefty nor Kiowa could reach their pistols while in the tight grasp of numerous captors.

  The few women of the settlement gathered together at the edge of the mob. Fearful, yet fascinated, they watched as a semi-organized effort finally emerged from the chaos. It became obvious that the late evening’s activities were going to take place around the saloon. This wasn’t so much because of its central location, but because several rafters stuck though the exterior wall making them handy to throw ropes over. More them one malefactor who had run afoul of the local population’s concept of acceptable behavior had been hauled up there by the neck to kick his life away.

  Lefty and Kiowa, scared witless, struggled and strained in a desperate effort to get free of the grasping hands. Someone produced a couple of short ropes, and their captors quickly and expertly trussed up the two prisoners, pinning their arms tightly to their sides. Both made attempts to reach their holstered pistols, but couldn’t quite grasp the weapons.

  At this point, the pair noticed their horses had been brought around and hitched up at the rail in front of the saloon. The animals would be accessible at that spot – for the auction that always followed a lynching.

  One man, a tall shopkeeper who ran a general store, finally gained control of the situation by getting the crowd’s attention. But as he began speaking, it was obvious he certainly wasn’t going to be of any help to Lefty McNally and the Kiowa Kid.

  “Before we hang ’em, we got to try ’em!” he reminded the people. “We ain’t savages here. We’re civilized folks.” As one of the few permanent residents of El Campo, he was accorded an extraordinary amount of respect and deference.

  Lefty took advantage of the cessation in shouting to speak out. “Now hang on! I got something to say, too!”

  A resurgence of infuriated shouting answered his remark.

  “Wait a minute!” the shopkeeper said. “Like I said, this here’s a decent town. Even if he’s a killer who has a savage Injun pard, we got to let him speak.”

  “There ain’t no call for this! We didn’t shoot nobody that didn’t shoot at us,” Lefty said.

  “You started it!” someone in the crowd yelled.

  “No, we didn’t,” Kiowa hollered back.

  “Shut up, Injun!”

  “Now ever’body listen,” Lefty pleaded. “We come into town not more’n two hours ago minding our own business. We went in for a drink and somebody shot at us.”

  “Liar!”

  “You picked a fight with Tom Foyt!”

  Lefty bellowed, “The no good sonofabitch hit me with a mouth organ.”

  The shopkeeper shook his head. “That ain’t no reason to kill a man.”

  “He drawed on me!” Lefty said.

  “On me, too!” Kiowa added.

  “Let’s get a witness over here,” the shopkeeper said. “Who saw all this?” He looked around. “And I mean the whole godamned thing.”

  “I did,” a trapper said. “And I was sober, too. I hadn’t been in there drinking more’n two or three hours.”

  “Fine,” the shopkeeper said. “Tell us what happened.”

  The trapper, a ways back in the crowd, pushed forward until he was face-to-face with Lefty and Kiowa. “It’s them alright.” He looked back at the crowd. “Cold-blooded killers!”

  The people yelled their angry agreement.

  “That’s enough,” the shopkeeper shouted. He nudged the trapper. “Go on and let us know what you seen.”

  “You bet,” the trapper said. “We was all in there and them two come walking in. All of a sudden, they started shooting and we chased ’em out into the street and caught ’em.”

  Lefty, still tightly held, struggled to get at the man. “You lying sonofabitch!”

  “Hold him! Hold him!” the trapper said retreating back to the safety of the pack of people.

  Another, a nondescript mountain man dressed in a bearskin cape, jumped into the forefront. “I can let y’all know what happened. Now listen up! Listen up!”

  “Quiet!” the shopkeeper bellowed. He gestured to the mountain men. “Go on now.”

  “I was squatting over in a corner relaxing with a cup o’ whiskey,” the mountain man began. “I was kinda watching a card game going on.” He paused, then added to emphasize his veracity, “Draw poker they was playing.”

  “That’s important,” the shopkeeper said.

  The mountain man licked his lips. “They played a few hands and that feller—” He pointed to Lefty. “— kept winning on account o’ the Injun—” He pointed to Kiowa, “— was walking around the backs o’ the players signaling what they had.”

  “I don’t know nothing about poker,” Kiowa protested.

  The shopkeeper sneered. “That’s the oldest story in the world. Ever’ damn sharper that comes through El Campo acts like he’s about to start his first card game.”

  “I can’t even read!” Kiowa howled in anger. “I don’t know what’s writ on them damn things.”

  “We wasn’t playing cards with Tom Foyt,” Lefty said. “There ain’t nobody in their right minds can say they seen us at no damn card table.”

  “You calling me crazy?” the mountain man asked.

  “If these fellers turn me loose, I’ll do more’n call you crazy, you furry, bearded, wild-eyed bastard!” Lefty yelled in rage.

  “See? See?” the mountain man said. “He’s as hot-tempered as a rutting bull buffalo. So when he got caught cheating he shot all them other fellers and we chased him and the Injun out here. God’s truth, boys! God’s truth!”

  The angry throng, failing to note that all the dead men were outside the saloon and not inside, hollered more threats at Lefty and Kiowa.

  “Well, they’re guilty as sin,” the shopkeeper said. “Hang ’em!”

  “Make ’em dance in the air!”

  “Throw some ropes over the rafters!”

  The shopkeeper held up his hand. “Wait a minute. We got to announce the sentence legal like.” He looked around. “Where’s ol’ Phineus?”


  “Yeah!” somebody shouted in agreement. “He was a lawyer. He knows how to do it proper.”

  Some more milling around and shouting started until an old prospector was produced. Pushed forward to the center of the action, he stood before Lefty and Kiowa.

  “Phineus Carrington,” the shopkeeper said. “You was a lawyer once, was you not?”

  The old man, whose harmonica playing had started all the trouble, drew himself up. When Phineus spoke, his obvious education and ability to articulate belied his appearance. “I was. And I’m proud to add that I sat on the circuit court of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania as a judge appointed by no less than the governor himself.”

  “That’s good enough for us,” the shopkeeper said.

  “What is it you require of me?” Phineus asked. “To solve some complicated contention of the law, no doubt.”

  “That’s right,” the shopkeeper said. “We need you to make a legal pronouncement so’s we can hang these two sonofabitches.”

  “Of course, sir,” Phineus said. “May I inquire as to the nature of their crime which, I assume, was a felony?” He looked at the two miserable prisoners. “It must be a felony to be a capital offense, you see.”

  “Is shooting folks a felony?” Lefty asks.

  “It most assuredly is, young man,” Phineus said with a disapproving glare.

  “Oh, shit!” Kiowa moaned.

  “They shot a whole mess of people,” the shopkeeper said.

  “Then I shall pass the death sentence, of course,” Phineus said. “But there is one more step to be observed. We must know who they shot and ascertain the deceased were indeed human beings.”

  “Of course they was human beans!” the shopkeeper yelled.

  “Their names, sir!” Phineus insisted. “This is a most portentous point of law!”

  The mob yelled out in restless anger, but the shop keeper silenced them. “Fine, Phineus. Now let me think. The first feller that comes to mind is Tom Foyt. Then there was—”

  “Tom Foyt!” Phineus exclaimed. “They shot Tom Foyt?”

  “Yeah,” the shopkeeper said.

  Phineus Carrington, though befuddled from heavy drinking, still had the ability to recall facts. He remembered celebrating his new grubstake by having a few belts of whiskey. Then, feeling happy, he felt inclined to play his harmonica. He could remember that much. Suddenly Phineus felt his pockets. “Where is my harmonica?”