The Unflinching Collection

Chapter 8

He didn"t stop riding until he reached a mountain range, a narrow trail taking him high up into its interior, discovering a cave where he camped, fed his horse and stretched himself out to sleep.

The sun dropped low behind the horizon. Across the vast sky a single eagle swooped, its plaintive call a mirror to the stark loneliness of the mountains. Anything that lived here scratched out a sorry existence. The arid land was hard, unrelenting, the lack of rain a killer. He"d seen it on the ride, prairie dogs and coyotes, even birds sometimes, lying in tangled heaps, bodies twisted and blackened, baked hard by the heat.

He"d filled two canteens with water back at the town, and barely half of one still held liquid inside. If he didn"t find another town, farm or homestead soon to replenish his dwindling supplies, he"d be just another dried up corpse out on the prairie. He feared most for his horse. If she succumbed, his chances of survival would be virtually nil.

Damn this land and damn this assignment. It would have been better to travel across to San Francisco, make his base there, get properly supplied, drum up some help. Out here, alone, he was vulnerable to any number of would-be attackers, human and animal. He checked his pockets. He had five cartridges left for his new carbine. Five. If a posse of twelve came after him, how many could he feasibly pick off before they surrounded and dangled his neck from the nearest tree?

Given such a scenario, he mused, casting an eye across the plain, there wasn"t a single tree in sight. A bullet in the brain might serve equally as well, before they propped his body up against a cliff face with a sign around his neck, "Horse thief and killer". Great end to an otherwise mediocre career. He sighed, stretched his arms high above his head and decided from now on he would travel through the night, when it was cooler. He looked at his horse. She too, would fare better in the coolness of the night. And if he came across a homestead, then he"d camp and wait until morning, for he did not wish to spook any people he might meet. If he came across anything. In this vast, blighted land, he may just as easily find nothing at all. He sighed, pulled his blanket tight around his throat and tried to sleep.

IfFranklyn Phelps was a small man; his stick thin arms and scraggily neck akin to a turkey"s, causing many to wonder about his age and his health. Perhaps he was dying of some hideous disease, but many commented on the fact he"d always appeared this way. When he was a boy, his playmates would call him w**d, or piss-pants because he constantly carried with him an overpowering stench of urine. Back then, some said that was also because he was sick. Now, a grown man, it seemed Franklyn Phelps wore his sickness like a label around his neck. Whatever the sickness was.

He prodded Norwich"s dead body and screwed up his lips, ruminating on what might have happened.

“What we gonna do?”

He strained his neck to measure Dan Parks with a dark stare. “What would you have me do, Dan? Send out smoke signals perhaps?”

“We could hunt the bastard,” suggested another, larger man, meaner than a skunk with a red-hot poker up his backside.

“Hunt who exactly, Stolen? Tobias didn"t get a look at him as he high-tailed it out of town, and Johnny-boy Fletcher is battling for his life with his legs all blown to s**t. Nobody knows who he is.”

Stolen shrugged. “We could follow his trail.”

“Oh, and ride straight into a bunch of Indians? No thank you.”

“Well, we can"t just let the bastard get away with it,” hawked Parks. “I mean; what sort of a smoke signal does that send out?”

smokeStolen nodded enthusiastically, adding, “Seamus over at the rail station will know him. He"s the one who sent him over here in the first place.”

“Over the past year, Seamus Rogers has sent twenty or more poor bastards over here to Norwich, to relieve them of their wares.” Phelps sighed, studying Norwich once more. “Seems like their profitable line of business has run its course.”

“We need to find the bastard who did this and kill him,” said Parks.

“Why? Because he defended himself, got the better of this miserable bunch?” Phelps stood up, stretched his back. “No. We haven"t got the manpower or the means. Besides, if this individual can take out these mean assholes, including Norwich… that is no small undertaking, boys. I reckon this is one mean individual we"re planning on taking down and it might be best to leave it well alone.”

“I can"t believe you"re saying this,” said Stolen. “You"re supposed to be the town sheriff, for God"s sake!”

“Yes, I am, and it is up to me to make difficult decisions. If we go out into the Territory, and we make mistakes, get lost or whatever, we"re dead. Either from thirst, Indians, or the bastard who did this.”

“But he"s out there somewhere, isn"t he? We"ll pick up his trail easy enough because there"s only one place to go, and that"s Fairweather. Three days" ride. We could take our time, maybe load up a wagon, and seek him out—”

“Have you got a death-wish, Stolen, or is it just that mess of tumbleweed in your head which you like to call a brain, which makes you come out with such crap?”

“Watch your mouth, Phelps.”

“Or you"ll do what, exactly?” Phelps stuck his thumbs in his waistband. His fingers were inches away from the flintlock in his belt.

what,Everybody knew how good Phelps was at shooting firearms. Stolen knew it, raised a single eyebrow and snarled, “I still think we should go after him.”

“Tell you what I"ll do,” said Phelps. “I"ll give you permission, lawful, legal, call it whatever you will – damn it, I"ll even sign a paper – for you and Parks to ride out and bring the bastard to justice. How about that?”

“What?” Parks shifted his weight, “You mean just us two?”

What“You could take Rogers with you. That"ll make three. Good odds, don"t you think? Three-to-one?”

“You"re full of s**t, Phelps,” said Stolen. “You haven"t the guts to go out there yourself, but you"re willing to send us? That stinks.”

“Well, you"re the ones who are so eager to track him down.” He glanced towards the sky. “But if I may make one more suggestion, it would be best to leave at first light. You can"t track him when the sun goes down.”

“First light?” Stolen shot a glance towards Parks, who shrugged. “All right, sure, we"ll do it. You sign the papers, exempt us from all wrongdoing, and we"ll go get him.”

Phelps grunted, took one more look at Norwich and shook his head. “You"d best be careful. I have an awful bad feeling about all of this.”

Simms came into the town halfway through the following day, the horse"s hooves plodding through the dirt, sending up little clouds of dust, and he pressed a bandana against his mouth and nose. The relentless heat, like a lead blanket, heavy and unbearable.

Outside the row of four buildings, which constituted the entire "town", he tied up his sorry mount and stepped up onto the boardwalk. He dusted himself off and went through the swing doors of the saloon, this being the one building which seemed remotely alive.

The saloon was barely larger than a makeshift latrine, with three tables taking up most of the space. Two old doors, jammed together across four barrels, served as the bar. A man sat outstretched on a chair in the far corner, fast asleep. Simms rotated his shoulders, easing out the knots, and went up to the counter, rapped it with his knuckles. “Anyone home?”

The man in the corner did not stir, but through a door next to him, came the barkeeper, a leather apron spattered in blood, a filthy rag in his hands. He frowned. “Who the f**k are you?”

Simms groaned to himself. “Nice welcome. Have you got any water?”

The man snorted. “Sure. If you"ve got the money to pay for it.”

“I"ve got money,” said Simms. He snapped a dollar piece on the counter. “I"ll need a bucket for my horse. Two canteens for myself. Three if you have another.”

“That"ll cost you more than a dollar, mister.”

Simms sighed, looked at the floor. “Just get the goddamned water.”

The barkeeper folded his arms, jaw set.

Simms put a second dollar coin next to the first. “If you ask for any more, I might get vexed.”

The barkeep studied Simms from head to foot, paying particular attention to the carbine in his grip, and disappeared into the back.

From the corner, the sleeping man roused himself, blew out a loud breath and ruffled his hair with both hands. “Jeez, what time is it?”

“Past noon.”

“Ah damn. Why the hell didn"t anyone wake me?” He stood up and stretched, joints cracking. “I need a drink.”

He waddled across to the counter and continued around it, reaching down towards a row of bottles nestling on the bottom shelf. Above was a collection of glasses, most dust-encrusted. He chose one at random, blew in it, and tipped the contents of his chosen bottle into the glass. He took a whiff of the drink"s aroma, then swallowed it in one. He clung onto the shelf, head lowered, eyes squeezed shut, and gasped. “Damn, that"s good.” He straightened up and poured himself a second, larger drink. The bottle, now empty, he set on the counter and stumbled back to his seat. He sat and studied Simms as if noticing him for the first time. “You Baudelaire Talpas, the regulator? We been waiting on you for six weeks, you bastard. Where the hell have you been?”

“Eating cats and dogs, marrying my squaw and setting up house in Wyoming. Where the hell do you think I"ve been?”

The man frowned, not sure what to make of this curious retort. He decided to take a drink instead. “I reckon you ain"t Talpas.”

“Then you would reckon correct. I"m not a regulator.”

“Bounty hunter? Jeez, you"re too late for that as well! They"ve got the faces posted up outside what used to be the sheriff"s office, before they killed him.” He chuckled. “One of them bastards even added some noughts to the bounty! Would you believe that? Man, they have balls them two. Balls bigger than a buffalo"s.” He drank, leaned back and yawned. “My good lady is going to be so pissed. I was meant to be home by sundown. Can you imagine—”

“What was it those two boys did?”

“Waylaid poor old Mr. Shatner, the attorney. Relieved him of forty dollars, and his horse. Left him for dead out in the prairie. Rumor has it he got eaten by the coyotes.”

“So how do they know these two killed poor old Mr. Shatner?”

“Because the coyotes didn"t eat all of him. Sherriff found him, brought what was left of him back in town, posted the rewards, then they shot him too.”

“The same boys?”

The man nodded. “Newhart and Mason. Two of the meanest sons of w****s you"re ever likely to find. Last I heard, they were involved in some shootout further out west, in Utah. Little town called Fairweather.”

Simms held his breath. “Utah? What sort of shootout?”

“Bank robbery, so the story goes. It all went wrong, most of the g**g got shot up, but them two, they managed to get away. Talk of a girl.”

Simms arched a single eyebrow, stepped across the room and sat down opposite the man. He leaned forward. “A girl? What about her?”

“I don"t know.” The man finished his drink. “All I know is, some days later a couple of drifters showed up, full of all sorts of stories, and one of them was about Newhart and Mason. The robbery went all t**s up, so some of the g**g took a girl, kidnapped her. Newhart and Mason, they struck east, made their way back into Colorado. That"s the last anybody knew.”

“So, you have no idea where they are now?”

“No. But if you are a bounty-hunter, which I suspect you are, my advice would be to steer well clear of them two. They"re worth not two hundred dollars between them.”

areThe barkeeper came through the door and planted three canteens of water on the bar. He eyed the empty bottle with suspicion. “What the hell? Have you been drinking this Sandy?”

Sandy giggled, raising his glass in salutation, “Good health, Dean. I"ll pay you next Friday.”

“The hell you will.” Dean blew out a breath and went around the bar to check the other bottles.

“Where"s the bucket for my horse?”

Dean straightened, jutting his chin towards the swing doors. “I gave it to her. She"s drinking it right now. She"s in a sorry state, mister, and in need of a good rest. You planning on going far?”

Simms shrugged. “Colorado.”

Sandy chuckled, “This here is a bounty-hunter, Dean. He"s going to track down Newhart and Mason for us.”

Dean pursed his lips, made a silent whistle. “Rather you than me, mister. They are mean. Shot the sheriff in the back of the head whilst he pinned up their posters. Laughed, they did. Oscar Toms went up to them, with his g*n, and they shot him too. Right out there.” He pointed towards the swing doors. “A lot of people left after that. Said they didn"t come out west to witness that kind of devilry, and I can"t say I blame "em. I hope you"re good at what you do.”

“I thought he was Baudelaire.”

Dean nodded. “Yes, that wouldn"t be a bad guess. Are you Baudelaire, mister?”

“Not when I last checked.”

“Baudelaire came here a few weeks past; said he was making his way down to Fort Laramie. Seems they"re hiring men. There"s a mess of trouble brewing down there. Story goes the government is sending troops.”

“And not for no savages,” said Sandy, leaning forward, “but for Mormons. You ever heard the like? Seems some mean types have been selling liquor to the Indians, which is against federal law, and the Mormons, they"ve decided to take things into their own hands.”

“So I heard. My plan was to go there myself, but now…” Simms nodded. “My plans have changed somewhat. Do you know anything about this bank robbery in which Newhart and Mason were mixed up in? Something about a girl being kidnapped?”

“Only the same as Sandy here,” said Dean. “Is she someone important?”

“Kind of. I"ve been ordered here to find her, bring her home.”

Sandy shot a look between Simms and Dean. “Ordered? You mean, you ain"t no bounty-hunter?”

Simms smiled at Sandy and shook his head. “No I"m not. I"m a Pinkerton Detective, out of Chicago, Illinois.”

“Jesus,” breathed Dean. “Then this girl truly must be awful important.”

“You might say that. Now,” Simms laid his hands on the table and stared. “I want you to tell me everything you know about those two jackasses, and the direction they took.” He swiveled to look at Sandy. “And you too. Everything. I want to have a long conversation with "em, if you get my meaning.”

Dean levelled his attention towards Sandy, and from the expression on his face, he knew exactly what Simms meant.

Two days later, men rode into town, all of whom Dean recognized as they came clumping into his saloon, demanding beer and water.

It didn"t take much of a preamble before Parks leaned across the counter and rasped, “You had a stranger in here, Dean?”

Dean, cleaning glasses with an old rag, pressed his lips together. “What"s this about, Parks? Looks like you"re in an awful big hurry.”

“Just answer the goddamned question.”

“Oh, and what are you now, the sheriff? Where is Phelps, anyway?”

“Sat on his bony a*s getting drunk,” spat Stolen. “Now answer, has any one passed through?”

“Had someone I thought was a bounty hunter in here. He left.”

“Where"d he go?” asked Parks, taking the lead again.

“Why you interested?”

Seamus Rogers stepped up. He seemed frightened, tired, all his finer days well behind him. “Was he a tall fella, light on his feet, probably toting guns, and wearing a Derby?”

“That would be him, except he exchanged the Derby for a ten-gallon. Derbies ain"t no good out in the sun, Seamus.”

“We"re on his trail, Dean,” continued Parks. “Where did he head?”

“West, into the Territory. He"s looking for someone too, but boys, I"m not sure if you should go after him. He seemed mean.”

“He is. Mean as they come. He killed Norwich.”

“Really?” Dean smirked. “Reckon he"s done your town a favor. Norwich was a low-life and a scoundrel. You all know that.”

“He stole a horse too,” added Stolen, moving forward.

“Ah.” Dean put down the glasses and filled them with water. “No beer, boys. Ain"t had a delivery for getting on for three months. I think I"ve been forgotten.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Only that he was after Newhart and Mason.”

“Who the hell are they?”

“A pair of rattlers, the like of which I don"t want ever to see again. Boys, you"re going into a heap of dog-s**t if you carry on after this guy. You ain"t killers and you sure as hell ain"t trackers. You"ll get lost and end up dying of thirst out there. Best leave it, go back home.”

“I think he"s right,” said Rogers, head bobbing as if he no longer had neck muscles.

“Shut your face,” spat Stolen. “That miserly sonofabitch killed Norwich. I don"t give a rat"s a*s who or what Norwich was, but he was a member of our town, and if we let this go, what does that say about us, eh?”

“It says you"re wise, Stolen. You know your limitations. Ain"t no shame in that. Leave "em all to the elements, or to the Indians. One of them will end everything for "em, that"s for sure.”

“This is bullshit,” snapped Parks. “Where exactly west did he go?”

exactly“Mentioned Fort Laramie, but maybe Fort Bridger first. There"s a heap of trouble that way, boys. Everywhere you look, it"s the same. Death is the only thing waiting for you if you continue on this venture, so let it go.”

“You"re an old woman, Dean,” snarled Parks.

“At least I"m a live one.”

He pushed over the filled glasses. Leaned back and watched them drink. He didn"t think he"d ever see them again, so he refrained from informing them exactly who Simms was. The detective might tell them himself, before he killed them.