Reuben's Revenge Read online

  Reuben felt the urge to clean his weapons, make sure the raging downpour hadn’t damaged them. He dismounted, grabbed his saddlebags and ground-hitched his contented horse. Eight hours in the saddle and he’d made good time, but night was drawing in and he decided this was as good a place as any to set up camp. No stranger to spending the night under the stars, he only hoped the rain would keep off.

  Taking out the cleaning kit he kept in his saddlebags, he almost lovingly started to clean his Colts; he removed the shells and, using an oiled rag, began to clean the chambers.

  He stopped suddenly as he heard a metallic click behind him.

  ‘I wouldn’t make no sudden moves, mister, if’n I was you,’ a gruff voice said, quite calmly.

  ‘I don’t intend to,’ Reuben replied, equally as calm.

  ‘Lay that pistol aside, mister, nice an’ easy.’

  Slowly, Reuben lowered the Colt .45 to the ground, placing it on his oily rag.

  ‘Now, drop the gun belt,’ the voice demanded.

  ‘What in hell for?’ Reuben demanded. ‘There ain’t no gun in it.’

  ‘Jus’ do it. OK!’

  Reluctantly, Reuben unbuckled the belt and dropped it slowly to the ground. Using this as a diversion, Reuben’s hand went to the boot on his right foot, feeling for the handle of his throwing knife.

  He let his hand stay there, gripping the elk-horn handle.

  ‘So, what now?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘How much money you got?’

  Reuben laughed. ‘Two dollars and some change,’ he said.

  ‘Shit! That all?’

  ‘That’s it, mister. Guess you struck unlucky,’ Reuben said.

  ‘We’ll see ‘bout that,’ the stranger muttered. ‘Toss that saddlebag over here.’

  ‘Ain’t nothing in there, either,’ Reuben said as he threw the bag across.

  As the man caught the saddlebag, the distraction was enough for Reuben to throw the knife.

  His aim was true. Not wanting to kill the man, Reuben had figured to hit the right shoulder – the man’s gun arm – and he succeeded as, with a yelp, the man involuntarily lost control of his gun, loosing off a shot that bit harmlessly into the ground.

  Reuben leapt to his feet and rushed the man, pinning him to the ground, before extracting the knife. He wiped the blood from it onto the man’s shirt and pressed the blade to the man’s neck.

  ‘If you’re gonna kill me, get it over with,’ the stranger said through gritted teeth.

  ‘If I was gonna kill you, you’d be dead by now,’ Reuben said. ‘And what were you planning to do?’

  ‘Well, I weren’t plannin’ on killin’ anyone. I got bushwhacked five days ago. Lost everythin’, food, water, ammo an’ my horse. All they left me with was that handgun with one slug in it. Been walkin’ most of the time an’ not found a thing to eat. I’m sorry, mister, guess I was just gettin’ to the end of my tether.’

  Reuben re-sheathed the knife and stood up. ‘Better take a look at that shoulder.’

  The man struggled to his feet and started to take off his trail coat. That was as far as he got.

  From out of nowhere, a shot rang out, hitting him square in the back. The force of the slug sent him flying forwards to land face-down in the camp-fire.

  Reuben grabbed the man’s legs and started to pull him free of the flames, but knew it was already too late. The stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils, the man’s long, dank hair was well alight, and he almost threw up.

  Reuben was exposed; silhouetted by the camp-fire, he was an easy target for the hidden bushwhacker. He dived to his left as another shot rang out, sending a plume of dust and sand over Reuben’s face.

  He could see his rifle lying next to his saddle, and his Peacemaker was where he’d placed it while cleaning it, but how the hell could he get to them?

  Working his way snakelike across the ground, Reuben kept the camp-fire between himself and the unseen attacker. Keeping low and flat, Reuben made a grab for the Winchester and pulled it quickly towards him. Then he waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  A third shot was fired, and the camp-fire erupted as the slug hit it, sending sparks high into the night sky. But he had seen the muzzle flash, and now had something to aim at. Sighting down the long barrel of the Winchester .44.40, with its extra rear sight for greater accuracy, he gently squeezed the trigger.

  His shot was instantly rewarded. A yelp of pain followed by a long, low grunt, told its own story. He had at least hit the bushwhacker

  Reuben waited for a full five minutes; he wasn’t about to assume that he had killed his attacker, so held back, not making any move. He was just about to relax some when another shot thudded into the dirt beside him.

  ‘Shit! There’s more than one!’ Reuben had missed where the shot had come from so stayed where he was, his eyes darting every which way to get some clue as to where the second shooter was.

  It was eerily quiet. Reuben could hear the beating of his own heart as he awaited the next shot. Again, he didn’t have to wait long.

  This time, he felt the slug sear across his back without biting into flesh. But he felt his coat pull as the bullet passed through it.

  On this occasion, he did see the flash of the other shooter and that was enough.

  Reuben rolled several times to his left before raising the Winchester once more. There was no time to take a careful aim, so he fired in the general direction of the last muzzle flash, and ducked down low again.

  There was no return fire.

  Reuben kept his head down in case the bushwhacker was playing possum. Slowly, he inched his way backwards, away from the fire and into relative darkness.

  The wind began to pick up and Reuben hoped it wasn’t a sign of the rain returning. His slicker was behind his saddle, wrapped around his bedroll, but the horse was a good thirty feet away on the other side of the camp-fire.

  For twenty minutes Reuben didn’t move a muscle, then he heard, rather than saw, a horse galloping off. He hoped it wasn’t his.

  A shot, miles wide of him, was fired and Reuben knew his attacker had decided to vamoose. The fool was silhouetted against a dull, yellow moon and Reuben took careful aim with the .44.40.

  The rider slumped forward in his saddle then slid to one side, and as he hit the dirt, a foot caught in a stirrup as the horse bolted.

  The animal lurched to its left and Reuben was able to see the fallen body being pummelled against rocks. The only sound was the clank of metal shoes on the hard ground.

  The dragged rider didn’t utter a sound.

  Reuben stood now, watching the horse and late rider fade into the distance, before turning his attention to the first shooter.

  Crouching down to present a smaller target should the man still be alive, Reuben edged forwards. He had no choice but to circumnavigate the camp-fire, putting himself in possible danger, but he needn’t have worried.

  On reaching the first shooter he could see quite plainly that the man was dead. He’d taken a .44.40 slug to the side of the head. The bullet had shattered his skull before exiting and burying itself in the ground.

  Bending over the corpse, Reuben took a long look at what was left of the man’s face. He didn’t recognize him at all. Turning the body over, Reuben went through the man’s pockets, looking for a clue as to who he was, but found nothing except a baccy bag and papers.

  Two chancers, Reuben thought. Certainly no one he’d tracked before, seeking revenge.

  A horse neighed in front of Reuben, no more than ten feet away. The animal seemed unconcerned with the gunplay as it chomped on a patch of coarse grass.

  He patted the animal’s neck, talking softly as he did so. He lifted off the saddlebags to see if there was anything of use inside. To his delight he found food and a bottle of bourbon. OK, so the food was only jerky, some fat-back bacon and beans, but also a full tin of Arbuckle’s. Reuben couldn’t help but smile.

  He took the saddlebag to the camp-fire, then
returned to the horse, which was ground-hitched, and released the reins; the animal stayed where it was, so he left it to forage.

  Next, he took the dead man’s rifle, his Colt and all his ammo. ‘More use to me than you, buster,’ Reuben said. He had little sympathy for the dead man. Bushwhackers and back-shooters were, in his book, the lowest of the low.

  He took another long, good look at the dead man, but could swear he’d never seen him before. Perhaps he was kin to someone Reuben had apprehended. He’d never know.

  ‘Critters’ll take care of you and, come sunlight, the buzzards will take what’s left. Good riddance!’

  Grabbing his bedroll and slicker, Reuben set up the rest of the camp, built the fire, then fed his horse some oats and barley before leading him to a patch of grass where he ground-hitched him. He removed his saddle and rubbed the animal down. ‘There you go, boy, all set for a night’s sleep.’ He patted the animal’s rump and returned to the camp-fire.

  He filled the coffee pot with water from the stream and, when it boiled, added a generous amount of Arbuckle’s and set that to brew as he filled a pan with beans and some of the bacon, then leaned back on his saddle and rolled a quirley.

  This was turning out to be a fine night after all, Reuben thought to himself. He finished his cigarette and poured a cup of coffee, then using the last of his bread, mopped up the beans and bacon, scraping every last ounce of bacon fat from the pan.

  The night passed peacefully, and Reuben was grateful that the rain had held off.

  He had already decided to bury, as best he could, the man who had tried to rob him initially and been unlucky enough to get himself killed by the bushwhackers.

  The best he could do was cover the body with rocks and stones. He knew coyotes and buzzards would take little time in getting at the body, but without any digging implements, it was his only option.

  When he’d finished, he brewed up some more coffee and set to work getting ready to resume his journey. Once packed, coffee drained, he mounted up and set off for Northfield, Minnesota.

  Chapter Three

  Frank and Jesse James led their gang out of Missouri and into Minnesota. They had been planning to rob the First National Bank in Mankato, but Jesse was spotted as he rode down the main street, so he and the gang, which consisted of the three Younger brothers, Cole, Jim and Bob, and four ex-Quantrill raiders, Clell Miller, Charlie Pitts, Bill Chadwell and ‘Bloody’ Bill Anderson, rode north and headed for Northfield.

  Frank and Jesse had been thorough in their search for the right bank to rob, having visited ten cities – mostly by rail – and posed as a party of land speculators, which gave them ample opportunity to familiarize themselves with the various banks they inspected, as well as plan possible escape routes.

  It was Chadwell’s idea to go to Northfield. He knew the town was prosperous, and they had a large bank there on Division Street.

  ‘Reckon I’ll ride on ahead,’ Chadwell said. ‘Do a recce on the place.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Jesse agreed. ‘Find out everything you can about the place. Cole, you go with him.’

  ‘OK, Jesse,’ Cole Younger replied.

  ‘We’ll meet at that inn we just passed, come sundown.’

  Chadwell agreed and the two men set off for Northfield.

  On reaching the town, Chadwell and Younger dismounted on Division Street. Chadwell lit a small cigar and looked up and down the thoroughfare.

  ‘Wait here with the horses,’ he said to Cole. ‘I’ll take a look round, see what I can find out.’

  Cole rolled a cigarette and nodded.

  ‘Hey, mister,’ Chadwell called out to a passer-by. ‘Any gun shops in town?’

  ‘Hell no, we don’t have a single one,’ the man replied without breaking stride.

  Chadwell then headed to the first of two hardware stores, but they held little of interest to him.

  He stepped out onto the boardwalk, stomped his cigar out and took a leisurely stroll towards the bank. He crossed the iron bridge that spanned the Cannon River, and turned right onto Mill Square.

  The two-storey Scriver Block housed some stores, as well as the First National Bank. The bank’s main entrance was not on the Square, but around the corner on Division Street. Chadwell, not wishing to draw attention to himself, didn’t stop to scrutinise the building, but nevertheless took in the whole scene.

  He headed back to Cole.

  ‘Seems easy enough,’ Chadwell told Cole, ‘no permanent law here either; they must be pretty damn sure of themselves in these parts.’

  ‘We heading to the inn now?’ Cole asked, not making any comment about the bank or the town.

  ‘Yeah, not much point in sticking around here. Before we go, I’ll do a rough plan of the area for Frank and Jesse. Chadwell pulled a small piece of paper from his vest pocket, along with a stub of pencil and drew a plan of the square, showing the bank’s front and rear doors and the two streets leading into the square.

  Satisfied with his map, he put it back in his vest pocket. ‘There’s two ways into town, and that means there’s two ways out, too,’ Chadwell said as he hefted his bulky frame aboard his horse and pulled rein.

  Although the wind was still gusty, there had so far only been a light drizzle as Reuben headed north. He kept his eyes and ears alert, checking his back-trail in case any bushwhackers were following.

  With the ground damp there would be no tell-tale dust kicked up by anyone behind him, so he had to rely on his hearing. Metal on stone would carry in this wind.

  Satisfied – for the time being – that no one was tracking him, Reuben decided it was time to stop and eat.

  He reached an outcrop that provided some shelter from the wind and was reasonably dry. Dismounting, he took down his canteen and poured half the contents into his Stetson and let his horse drink. Then, reaching into his war bag that hung from his pommel, he grabbed a handful of barley and scattered it on some coarse-looking grass that would satisfy his horse for a while.

  Collecting some tumbleweed, he crunched it up, boosting it with small twigs trapped near the boulder he was standing by, and lit a fire, adding more twigs as the flames took hold. Planting a larger twig over the fire, he filled the coffee pot and waited for the water to boil.

  Then he remembered the bourbon! ‘That would warm a body up some,’ he said aloud, causing the horse to stop eating and look up at him.

  ‘It’s OK, boy,’ he said, ‘only a couple of swigs.’ The horse bent low and continued eating as if he understood what his master had said. Reuben almost believed he had.

  With the water close to boiling, Reuben dug out his pan and put the rest of the fat-back bacon in it and placed it on the fire. Within minutes, the smell of cooking bacon was making his mouth water. He added some beans, and rolled a cigarette while he waited for the food to cook. Some Arbuckle’s in the pot, and he was set.

  The wind had dropped slightly, and the drizzle had mostly halted. Reuben lit his cigarette, once more a contented man.

  Five minutes later, he was scooping out beans and bacon with the last of his bread, washing it down with fresh coffee. All the time he was thinking, it doesn’t get much better than this!

  There was enough coffee left for one more mouthful, to which he added a splash of bourbon and downed it in one swallow.

  He was sorely tempted to pull his Stetson down over his face and take a nap but considered that to be dangerous. He’d been shot at twice and didn’t want a third time.

  Standing, he tossed the coffee grains on the fire, kicked sand over it to make sure it was out, rinsed both the coffee pot and mug with sand, and did the same with the pan before stowing them in his saddlebag.

  ‘Time to move on, boy,’ he said, mounting up. The horse snickered in reply.

  The drizzle had petered out and the wind was dropping by the second. Here and there were bright patches of blue sky surrounded by cotton-wool clouds. It was cold, but the day was now bright as the sun appeared, throwing down the little heat it held a
t this time of year.

  The terrain that stretched before him was flat, the ground drying rapidly, and he set the horse to an easy lope, letting the animal pick its own route between patches of coarse grass, cactus, Joshua trees and cottonwoods.

  Reuben constantly scanned ahead and behind him; always paid to be careful. Although he saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary, Reuben was certain he was being watched. Where and by whom, he didn’t know, but his gut feeling rarely let him down.

  It didn’t this time either.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben caught sight of a flash of light. It only lasted for a second or two, but was enough to warn him. The flash came again; someone was getting ready to shoot at him.

  Reuben dug his heels in and the startled horse immediately leapt into a gallop. Reuben wanted to put as much distance between himself and the bushwhacker as possible.

  He heard the distant crack as the gun was fired, but the shooter was well out of range. Reuben saw a small plume of sand rise as the slug hit the ground harmlessly. He reined in and turned his horse to face the gunman. Scanning the terrain to locate the man; he needed to get a fix on his position. This is going to end here, Reuben thought to himself, I ain’t gonna be dogged all the way to Northfield.

  Sliding his .44.40 from the scabbard, Reuben dismounted and waited for the man’s next move. He caught sight of another brief flash of light. The man’s an idiot, Reuben thought. He sure ain’t no gunman, that’s for sure.

  Cocking the Winchester, Reuben raised it to his right shoulder, setting the butt comfortably, and sighted down the barrel. He wasn’t sure if the weapon would reach its target, but it would be pretty close.

  Holding his breath, Reuben started to squeeze the trigger. The bullet exploded from the rifle, and Reuben’s shoulder coped easily with the expected recoil.

  Lowering the gun, he stared into the distance. There was no return fire, but that didn’t mean he’d found his target.

  ‘Stay here, boy,’ he said to his horse as he ground-hitched it. The animal seemed unconcerned and fell to his favourite pastime of grazing.