Trail of Vengeance

by L. J. Kottke

 One

The sun was beginning to clear the rim, making its way down the opposite wall of the canyon. Crouching low, unobserved among the pines dotting the steep hillside, Lem Stimson scouted the scene below. There they are! Right where Jessup said they’d be.

The canyon was small. A narrow trail zigged and zagged into a meadow a quarter mile from the entrance. Cattle milled about a makeshift corral of weathered logs. Probably sixty head, I reckon. He counted six figures on the canyon floor between himself and the cattle. Two were standing near the corral, one testing the saddle of a tethered horse. The rest huddled around a smoking camp fire. Lem watched as one figure rose to douse what remained of the flames.

That’s all he had to know. Carefully making his way through the pines to his horse, he spurred the animal toward the cottonwood grove where the others waited. “They’re there, all right, boys,” he announced as he swung down, “just like the detective fella said they’d be. Cattle, too. I figure close to sixty head. Not for long, though. Looks like they’re fixin’ to cut out right soon. Ain’t no guard neither.”

The group was on foot, their horses tied nearby. Slim Singleton spoke first. “This is it, boys. If anyone wants to clear out, now’s the time.” No one moved. They had all lost cattle and men to the rustlers in the canyon ahead or knew a neighbor who did, and now they were mad--mad enough to fight back. Singleton looked over at his friends and neighbors. Good men, all of them. And some might die today. “All right, then,” he commanded, “mount up and let’s ride!”

Fanning out toward their waiting horses, some checked their rifles as they walked. They moved as one toward the canyon entrance and dismounted. The narrow, winding trail had so far muffled the sound of their approach. Lem motioned a few of the boys to follow him through the canyon entrance, blocking that escape. Without a word, the others clambered up the slopes overlooking the meadow. Once in position above the camp, they waited.

The men below were gathering their gear and saddling their horses. The guard they’d posted had joined them for grub, unaware of the predawn gathering in the grove a few miles away, confident their activities remained unobserved in the rocky landscape just below the Wyoming border. Singleton was on the south rim. He watched the others slip into position. Now he, too, waited for the signal they had agreed upon. Then it came.

"You're surrounded!  Drop your guns!"

Lem Stimson’s voice echoed in the cool morning air. At the sound of the shouted command, the men on the floor of the canyon dove for what cover they could find. Guns and rifles drawn, they searched for a target.

"I said drop 'em!  Now!"

Lead exploded toward the sound of Lem’s voice, answered by a scream of pain. A rifle shot had ricocheted off a boulder and hit Ben Tolliver’s man in the neck. The knowledge that one of their own had been hit set off a blaze of answering fire. The small herd in the makeshift corral broke out and scattered. Horses panicked and ran. Rifles cracked and pistols pinged for several minutes.

At the first lull in the barrage of gunfire, a shout went up, “THAT’S ENOUGH. HOLD YOUR FIRE!” This time the command came from Gus Hawkes. A few straggler shots followed, then all was quiet. After the dust settled, Lem ventured out, rifle ready. The figures lay motionless on the canyon floor. Two were face up, trampled by the cattle. Another lay face down across his rifle, a pool of blood welling up around his head.

Lem heard a low moan. He stopped, his eyes searching for the source of the sound. Then another, coming from his left. A flash of movement to his right. A minute later, he called out, "Three dead!  Three still kickin'!"

One by one, the men on the hillsides and at the entrance left their cover and took stock of their casualties. The High Timber spread lost a man. Others counted a few wounded. Several hands rounded up the horses grazing at the far end of the canyon, then joined Lem and the others gathered at the encampment. One of the rustlers was shot up pretty bad, another had a bullet crease alongside his head, the third, a boy really, was unhurt.

“What’ll we do with the others?” a rider from the Bar M wanted to know.

“Leave ‘em for the wolves,” Singleton told him.

Three of the horses were brought up. The surviving thieves, their hands now tied behind them, were put on board. The group left the canyon, gathered their own horses and led their captives back to the cottonwood grove. In silence, a tree was selected and ropes slung. The still mounted thieves were positioned and a rough noose secured around each man’s neck.

“Hold on!” Hawkes called out, “We’d better get their names for the sheriff!”

“All right, but it don’t matter none unless, of course, there’s a reward.” Lazy Y called back, and addressed the thief nearest him, “The men we left back there. Who were they?” The man looked down with glazed eyes. His shirt was soaked with blood from the bullet wounds in his chest. The noose around his neck was the only thing keeping him upright. He said nothing.

Lazy Y went to the next man. “What about you? Anything to say?” The thief with the head wound said nothing, but spat contemptuously in reply.

“Not exactly talkative, Gus.” Lazy Y reported.

Gus Hawkes decided to try the boy. “What’s your name, son?”

“Davey,” the boy whispered. Then, motioning to the man next to him, hardly older than himself, he said, “This here’s Lonnie Merkson. The other one’s Tyler.”

“Davey,” Gus said quietly, “what’s your last name, son?”

“Cro...,” the boy started, than caught himself. “Rutherford, sir. Davey Rutherford.”

“How old are you, Davey?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

The boy was scared, real scared. His eyes wildly scanned the faces looking up at him. He found no mercy in their return gaze.

“Please, mister, don’t do this...it ain’t right...can’t be,” the one called Davey pleaded. Next to him, Lonnie Merkson, dying from his chest wounds but still conscious, gasped out, “Let the kid go. This was our show. We done the killin’.”

Slim Singleton and Gus Hawkes exchanged glances. Before they could say anything, Ben Tolliver, seeing the exchange and aware of the thoughts behind it, called out, “Anything you boys want to say before we skedaddle them horses?”

The one named Tyler sneered and spat again. Lonnie Merkson slumped against the rope around his neck. Davey Rutherford thought of the brother he hadn’t seen since he was a kid. Hadn’t even heard from him in a spell. Don’t rightly know if he’s still alive. No, no use telling Charlie nothin’...

“Come on, Ben. Get on with it.” The voice came from the rear of the group.

“Hold on, Ben,” Gus said suddenly, “Let’s take the boy back. Ain’t decent to swing a fifteen year old.”

“I know how you feel, Gus. I been thinkin’ the same,” admitted Tolliver. “What do we gain hanging a kid?”

“Hold on, now, you two,” it was Jake Bender’s voice. His daughter, Molly, had lost her man in a raid on their ranch. “If he’s old enough to ride with thieves, he’s old enough to swing with ‘em.” A murmur of agreement rose around them.

Gus Hawkes looked up at the contorted face of the boy before him. “Sorry, son,” he said, and turned away.

Ben Tolliver whacked the horse nearest him. The animal bolted out from under the weight on its back, leaving Lonnie Merkson kicking the air behind it. Lem Stimson hit the second one, and watched the thief called Tyler sway above him. Tyler’s neck was broken when his horse reared, then fell to its knees. Scrambling up, the panicked animal sent the lifeless form above it swinging into the still struggling figure of Lonnie Merkson.

“Sweet Jesus.. .No!” Davey Rutherford cried out as Jake Bender lashed the horse beneath him.

A High Timber hand turned away and was sick. The others watched the swinging ropes in silence until all movement stopped. Ben Tolliver’s booming voice was strangely subdued when it broke the stillness of that sunny summer morning, “That’s it, boys. Let’s go home.”

TWO WEEKS LATER...

The letter had lain in a drawer at a hotel in Dodge awaiting his arrival, a hotel which served as his home base, where those in need of his skills could reach him. It was his only mail that early September evening when Charlie Cross rode in after his latest ‘assignment,’ a little boundary dispute down New Mexico way. As usual, the matter had been negotiated with his particular brand of persuasion. His employer got his money’s worth, Cross collected his fee and the incident was closed. He headed home.

He had been looking forward to a bath and a good meal, then maybe a few drinks over a little poker, and was irritated to find a letter waiting for him. He figured he knew what the message would be, for he only received one kind, and just now he needed a break. He’d had enough killing...for a while.

This time, however, the return address intrigued him: Sheriff William A. Tate, Town of Lodestar, Colorado. Colorado? The name made him uneasy as he slowly tore the end off the envelope and withdrew the letter inside. It had been dated two months before. The reason for his unease was confirmed when he read the sheriff’s message.

So, his mother was dead. His stepfather, too. An accident, the letter said, something about a road washed away after a storm. The sheriff wanted him to come to Lodestar to settle their affairs and see to his brother, Davey. The sheriff said that he and his wife would care for the boy until Cross arrived.

“Bad news, sir? Anything I can do?”

Cross looked up to see the concern in the eyes of the young desk clerk. Folding the letter and returning it to the envelope, he said, “No, it’s nothing. I’d like my key. And send up some dinner--anything will do--coffee, and a double whiskey. And see to my horse, will you? He’s the black outside.”

“Yes, sir. I surely will. Don’t you worry none.” the clerk assured him, pocketing the silver dollar Cross had tossed him.

Alone in his room, Cross locked the door and again examined the sheriff’s message. This was something he’d never considered. He was standing at the window, deep in thought, when a light knock at the door announced the arrival of the food he’d ordered. Mechanically, he drew iron before unlocking the door and opening it slightly, his foot wedged behind it. Seeing the clerk he recognized from the front desk, he opened the door fully and motioned the boy into the room. “Put it there,” he directed, motioning to the bureau beside him. The boy nervously followed instructions and set the tray down. “Anything else, sir?” he asked, hoping there was not, as he eyed the gun in Cross’s hand.

“No, that’s all for now.”

After the clerk made a hurried exit, Cross closed the door behind him and locked it once more. Replacing the Colt in its holster, he took the belt off and hung it over the bed rail, then removed his coat and hat. He would clean up a bit before relaxing with his meal and the drink he’d ordered. After quickly washing and shaving, he retrieved the tray from its resting spot on the bureau and set it on a chair beside the bed. By the time the meal was finished and the whiskey gone, he knew he would leave for Lodestar in the morning.

Long into the night, stretched out on the bed and staring at the ceiling, Cross realized it had been ten years since he’d left his home on the outskirts of Sedalia. Ten years since he’d seen his parents and his brother, Davey. In those years he’d found the excitement he’d been looking for, as a gun for sale to the highest bidder. In and around Texas, Oklahoma and New Mexico, he’d made a name for himself with the only talent he’d been born with, an easy way with a gun.

Cross prided himself in his reputation as someone to be reckoned with, although he knew he was not unique, for the war had spawned many like him. Many men, seeking adventure or an escape from empty lives, joined the ranks of grey or blue. After witnessing and being a part of the organized carnage war brought, they often returned to lives devastated by battle. Many had their homes burned and their families scattered. Some wanted revenge and found ways after the organized killing was through to continue to wreak destruction, others had to make a living any way they could.

He had been just a kid during the war. His family’s farm had been largely spared from the main fields of battle. The closest they came to being touched by the war was a raid several years afterward by a band of marauding scavengers who’d never accepted the final outcome. He’d helped his father drive them off, and killed for the first time.

Many of those who returned home had not been able to turn the talents they’d nurtured during the war into the profitable line of work he himself enjoyed. Some chose to work alone, hitting the gold shipments forced to trek between mining camps. Some found the trains profitable. He remembered in particular the a story of a gang who’d stopped a train heading east from the mint in San Francisco, and rode away with sixty thousand dollars in newly minted twenty dollar gold pieces.

Such windfalls, however, were rare, and Cross wondered how much, if any, of the story were really true. Indeed most, like himself, preferred to sell their talents. Some found work as ‘Regulators,’ plying their trade for cattlemen determined to drive homesteaders from the open range. But not all used their war-hewn talents outside the law. There were those who found jobs protecting the same gold shipments targeted by others of their ilk, and bounty hunters, who made out quite well bringing in desperate men one way or another, and who found bringing them in dead much less trouble than alive for the same price. Then there were the lawmen, sheriffs and deputies scattered all across the western territories.

But however they chose to use their guns, most of these men had one thing in common–they died young. Most were killed in gunfights by others faster, and sometimes younger, than themselves. A good many stood on scaffolds and ended their time at the end of ropes wielded by vigilante committees, who may have been a town’s only law.

The worst of the violence and confusion that followed the war was over now, calmed by homesteaders who moved across the plains and quieted the most notorious towns on the way west. Cross knew he pressed his luck with each assignment, yet somehow he couldn’t stop, and he knew he wouldn’t stop until he himself faced his own rope or bullet. Until then, he would continue to play avenging angel for those who could afford him, for he was not ashamed of his profession. The money was good and there would always be someone to take it if not him. Besides, he figured every side in a dispute thinks they’re in the right, and often right is only a point of view.

He remembered little of his parents. They had been good people, but their life just hadn’t been his life. He’d never met his stepfather. His mother remarried and moved to Colorado after his own father died, years after he’d left home, and her occasional letters to the hotel in Dodge were his only link with his early life, a link he had been somehow reluctant to break. He had sent her the hotel address explaining only that his work required a great deal of travel. His room there was his home now and he did no ‘work’ in Kansas.

Thinking back, he remembered his brother, Davey, as a blond, curly haired kid who always followed him around. Got in his way a lot, it seemed at the time. Davey always wanted someone to read to him and the ragged toy bear he carried everywhere. Sometimes Cross obliged, he recalled with a rare smile. The memory of that ragged bear was the last thing on his mind as he drifted off into a deep, but restless, sleep.
 

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