Reuben's Revenge Read online

  Taking deep breaths, Reuben set about the last knot. He tried to slide the rope down the chair leg, but a broken strut halted its progress. There was no alternative other than to untie the knot.

  Despite the pain in his hands, he wriggled and teased at the knot until, at long last, it became looser. Again, blood began to reach his lower leg and he had to stop and rest.

  One final attack and he was free – of the ropes at least.

  Reuben lay flat on his back, getting both his breath and strength back. At length the pins and needles abated and he felt strong enough to stand. The room was as black as hell, but there was a sliver of light to his left, which he assumed came from an ill-fitting door.

  He was right. But the door was locked.

  Mustering what he thought would be his last ounce of strength for a while, he used his good shoulder to charge at the door.

  It was flimsier than he’d anticipated and gave way easily, sending Reuben flying through the air to land heavily in the hard-packed door. Bright sunshine flooded his eyes, temporarily blinding him.

  When he got used to the light, he looked back inside. In one corner was a table. No gun this time; they’d obviously learned a lesson.

  These guys were either amateurs or they were convinced he’d never be able to escape.

  They had left his Stetson, so he retrieved it and scanned the terrain.

  He saw and heard nothing.

  Moving around the shack, he saw nothing.

  His horse had gone this time, too.

  But lying in the dirt, he spotted his war-bag and beside it, his Winchester. It didn’t make sense. Why had they left those two items? Now he was armed. The war-bag was closed, so he knew, as he opened it up, that his stash of ammo was still there.

  On foot, with no boots, he stood little chance of finding the thieves. He also stood little chance of surviving!

  As he sat and thought of what to do next, he heard distant hoof beats heading his way.

  Listening closely, he reckoned four horses.

  Grabbing his rifle, he lay on the ground behind the shack. The hoof beats stopped abruptly.

  Damn! he thought. He’d left the door to the shack lying on the ground. The element of surprise was lost.

  Removing his Stetson, Reuben took a quick look out front. There were four riders, but from this distance, he couldn’t recognize them.

  Slowly, the four men began to walk their animals towards the cabin.

  When they were no more than forty feet from the shack, they halted again and one of the men lifted out his Winchester and dismounted, walking slowly towards the building.

  Reuben recognized the man immediately, He was one of the ex-Quantrill raiders and was the spitting image of the Wanted poster he had stared at many times. It was ‘Bloody’ Bill Anderson, probably the most dangerous of the Quantrill gang who had survived the last battle William Quantrill had fought.

  So it was him in particular that they were after. Anderson has obviously remembered him from the failed bank robbery. They hadn’t killed him because they wanted a slow death for him.

  It all became clear now.

  Moving slowly to his right, Reuben levelled his Winchester. His head and right shoulder was exposed as he sighted on the man walking towards the shack.

  He ignored the pain in his left shoulder and kept the Winchester steady. He aimed for the man’s right thigh. No way was he going to make his death quick. He planned on taking him back to Northfield where he would be tried and hopefully hanged.

  Holding his breath, Reuben gently squeezed the trigger.

  The thunder from the rifle was shattering, the previous silence making it sound like a thunder-clap.

  It was followed by a high-pitched scream as Anderson fell to the dirt, clutching his right leg.

  The other three riders pulled rein and galloped off in the direction of Madelia, Minnesota. Try as he might, Reuben couldn’t see the men’s faces. But he took aim and took another of them out.

  Now he had two horses. His hopes rose that he’d survive after all.

  When the remaining two riders were just a distant dust cloud, Reuben struggled to his feet, and entered the shack, retrieving the ropes that had bound him.

  Holding his rifle level, he slowly approached the stricken man who was, by now, groaning rather than screaming.

  But Reuben was careful. He hadn’t lived this long to be fooled by an injured man who might reach for his gun.

  Anderson made no movement as Reuben stood over him.

  ‘Go ahead, finish me off,’ Anderson said.

  ‘No way,’ Reuben replied. ‘I’m taking you in to face trial and hang. There ain’t no easy death for you,’ Reuben added.

  Reuben knelt and removed the man’s hand gun, then kicked his Winchester to one side. He felt the man’s boots, but there was no hidden knife.

  Using a small piece of the rope, Reuben placed a crude tourniquet around the man’s thigh above the wound. There wasn’t much bleeding, so he figured he hadn’t hit an artery. He’d survive the journey.

  He then tied the man’s hands – tightly.

  ‘You got a choice,’ Reuben said. ‘Sit a saddle, or I’ll tie you across your horse. You choose.

  ‘I’ll ride,’ Anderson replied.

  Reuben brought the man’s animal around to his left side.

  ‘Put your left foot into the stirrup, I’ll hold your right leg and lift it over,’ Reuben said.

  Anderson complied.

  Reuben fetched his own horse from the back of the shack and tied a rope from his pommel to Anderson’s. He picked up Anderson’s Colt and Winchester, and stored them in his saddlebags, they then headed back to Northfield.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cole, Bob and Jim Younger were indeed heading for Madelia, where they would hide out until the dust settled.

  They didn’t realize the dust wouldn’t settle.

  Reuben and Anderson had an uneventful journey back to Northfield, arriving around four in the afternoon.

  They were immediately surrounded by the townsfolk, who recognized Anderson and hauled him from his horse, and marched him to the jail block.

  The doctor was summoned, and he saw to the wounded leg. He didn’t do the best of jobs, leaving the slug in his leg, but at least the bleeding had stopped, so he’d last until he hanged.

  Reuben was feted by the citizens of Northfield, the pats on his back and offers of free drinks and room and board were tempting. But all Reuben wanted was something to eat and his horse seen to.

  This was taken care of immediately. While he ate a bloody steak, with gravy and potatoes, his horse was fed and watered and well groomed, his mane shining in the late afternoon sun.

  JG Jeft, the owner of the restaurant, walked across to Reuben, who was just finishing the last of his coffee.

  ‘Everything to your satisfaction, Mr Chisholm?’ he asked.

  ‘Finest steak I ever had,’ Reuben replied. ‘Any news on the bank robbery?’

  Jeft laughed. ‘Well, we killed two of them, and wounded two of the Younger boys. Jesse and his brother managed to escape uninjured. Sadly, two of the townsfolk were killed: Joseph Heywood, a bank teller, and a new arrival from someplace called Europe, Sweden, I think.’

  ‘How much money did they get?’ Reuben asked.

  This time, Jeft laughed so hard he almost fell over, his big belly shaking like a huge jelly.

  ‘They got just over two dollars,’ he said, tears rolling down his fat cheeks.

  Reuben didn’t laugh. ‘So, four dead. Fifty cents each.’

  That halted Jeft’s laughter.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jeft said, hanging his head. ‘I never thought of it that way.’

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘Not a cent. Dinner’s on the house. Your money won’t be accepted while you’re in Northfield. A thank you for your help in bringing in that murdering scumbag,’ Jeft said, clearing the table.

  ‘ ’Preciate that, Mr Jeft. Now I need a tu
b and some sleep. Be seeing you,’ Reuben left the restaurant and crossed the square to the Dampier Hotel. He’d need a second night there.

  Henry Potter gave a huge smile as Reuben entered the lobby.

  ‘Welcome back, Mr Chisholm. I’m sure the whole town owes you a great debt. We certainly applaud your bravery,’ Potter gushed.

  ‘The Pinkertons have killed or wounded most of the gang, ’cept Frank an’ Jesse. They reckon they headed towards the Dakotas. But they’ll get their comeuppance. They just don’t accept the war is over.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news. Them Pinkerton fellas sure do work fast,’ Reuben said. Then, changing the subject, Reuben said, ‘I need the room for another night, and a hot tub, Mr Potter. If that’s possible?’ Reuben asked. ‘And thank you for your kindly comments.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Chisholm. Your room is ready, and I’ll get the house staff to sort the tub out right away.’

  Reuben reached into his vest pocket and handed over some money.

  ‘No need, Mr Chisholm, it’s on the house as a thank you,’ Potter said, holding up hands palms forward. ‘As is breakfast in the morning. Any time between eight and ten.’

  ‘Mighty gracious of you, Mr Potter,’ Reuben replied as he made his way upstairs on weary legs. It had been a long and harrowing day.

  But it wasn’t over yet.

  Chapter Twelve

  Henry Moon, long-time partner of Bloody Bill Anderson, had overheard a conversation in a saloon, about the failed bank raid in Northfield.

  As he listened he heard the name Anderson!

  Moon moved from the bar and stood in front of the two men. ‘Buy you a drink, fellas? I’d like to know what you heard about the Northfield bank robbery.’ Moon smiled at the two men who were completely unaware of the identity of the man speaking to them.

  ‘Sure thing, mister, beer would be fine.’ They didn’t even ask his name.

  Moon returned to the table with the beers and sat opposite the two men.

  ‘What we heard is that the James-Younger gang tried to hold up the First National Bank in Northfield. It didn’t go down too well,’ one of the men began.

  ‘Seems two of the gang were killed outright, and Cole and Jim Younger were wounded, but managed to escape, as did Jesse and his brother Frank, along with two others. Bill Anderson was one, the other unknown,’ the second man said.

  ‘They get away with much?’ Moon asked.

  Both men laughed. ‘Hell no, a little over two dollars.’

  Henry laughed too. But not with his eyes.

  ‘Thanks, fellas. Enjoy your beers,’ Henry said, and stood to leave the saloon.

  ‘That ain’t the end of it,’ one of them said.

  ‘Well?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Seems some fella by the name of Chisholm went after them and caught up with Anderson. Took him back to Northfield with a slug in his leg. He’s in the jailhouse, waiting for the trial. Ain’t no doubt he’ll hang for sure.’

  ‘Thanks again, fellas,’ Henry said and left the saloon.

  Dusk was falling fast as Henry was leaving, soon it would be dark. There was no moon in sight as the thick, black clouds scudded across the sky. He’d have to head to Northfield come first light.

  Tonight, he would sleep under the stars.

  Reuben checked into his room and gave a soft whistle. It was nothing like he’d ever seen before.

  A huge bedroom with a double bed. Bedside tables on either side with oil lamps already lit, and a bottle of the finest Scotch whisky and a crystal tumbler stood on a highly polished oak table, surrounded by four straight-back chairs.

  In the right-hand corner, double opening windows led out onto a small balcony. There was a huge sofa with cushions scattered all over it.

  Next to the sofa was another door. Reuben opened it carefully, in case it was someone else’s room. But it wasn’t.

  If Reuben was surprised by the quality of his room, he was astounded to find a tub and wash basin and a bucket with a lid on it, the toilet, he presumed. A pitcher and jug stood on a chest of drawers, the water clean.

  Reuben became instantly alert as a knock on his door sounded louder because of the silence.

  He drew his Colt and moved towards the door, standing to one side. He didn’t want a bullet fired through the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he asked.

  ‘Complimentary coffee, sir,’ came the reply.

  ‘Just leave it on the floor out there,’ Reuben said.

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  Reuben heard the contents of the tray rattle as it was placed on the carpeted hallway floor. Then the soft footfalls of the departing waiter.

  Reuben waited for five minutes before slowly opening the door, his Colt cocked.

  On the floor was a silver tray with a coffee pot, cup and saucer, milk and a bowl of sugar. Next to these was a plate of cookies.

  Reuben holstered his gun and bent down to pick up the tray. As he stood, a shot rang out. He felt the air rush past him as the bullet thudded harmlessly into the wall facing Main Street.

  Without dropping the tray, Reuben kicked the door shut and placed the tray on one of the bedside tables.

  Then he took his side-iron out once more and went back to the door. His ear pressed against the wall, listening.

  All was silent.

  Slowly, he opened the door once more and took a quick look down the hallway, his finger putting pressure on the trigger, ready to shoot if anyone was still there.

  The hallway, around thirty yards long, was empty.

  Slowly, Reuben edged his way towards the end of the hallway. When he reached the corner, he halted, listening intently.

  He heard nothing.

  Crouching, he peered around the corner, but the second hallway was also empty. Reuben headed for the head of the stairs leading to the lobby.

  Leaning over the banister, Reuben could see the body of the hotel owner, Henry Potter, lying beside the front desk.

  Reuben pulled back the hammer on his Colt and slowly descended the stairs.

  Scanning the lobby area, Reuben made sure there was no one in sight. It seemed empty.

  Moving towards Potter’s unmoving body, he knelt and felt for a pulse.

  The man was alive; seems he was cold-cocked, judging by the lump on the back of his head.

  Then Reuben heard a noise from somewhere near the lobby. He dragged Potter behind the lobby desk. Reuben kept his head low, just high enough to peer over the desk.

  A shot rang out, but Reuben’s reactions were lightning fast. The bullet lodged into the wood of the desk, sending deadly splinters of wood skywards.

  Reuben didn’t waste any time. In the micro second that it took for the bullet to reach the desk, he’d seen the muzzle flash. He lifted his Colt and fired in the general direction.

  Another shot rang out, hitting almost the same place as the first. Reuben loosed off three quick shots, and on the third, heard a deep groan.

  He’d made a hit.

  Reuben crawled to the far side of the lobby desk, peered cautiously to his right, and saw a body.

  Meanwhile, Henry Potter began to come to. Reuben rushed to his side.

  ‘Keep down, there might be more than one gunman,’ he whispered to Potter.

  They waited another five minutes before Reuben stood up. The body hadn’t moved and there’d been no more shots.

  The man was dead. Reuben stared at the man’s face, but didn’t have a Wanted poster on him and had no idea who he was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As he knelt by the body, Henry Potter stood, holding his head, wondering what the hell had gone on. At the same time, townsfolk entered the hotel and stood looking at Reuben, not quite knowing what to make of what they saw.

  It was Henry Potter who spoke first.

  ‘I got cold-cocked,’ he said. ‘But Mr Chisholm there saved my life.’

  Everyone moved closer to the body.

  ‘Anybody recognize him?’ Reuben asked.

&nb
sp; He was met by a shaking of heads, then one man stepped forward.

  ‘He was one of the bank robbers,’ he said. ‘I saw him as clear as day.’

  ‘Anyone know his name?’ Reuben asked.

  No one answered.

  ‘What the hell he come back here for?’ Potter asked.

  ‘He was trying to kill me,’ Reuben replied. ‘Why? I have no idea.’

  Henry Moon rose at the same time that the sun tipped over the distant mountains. He made coffee, but did not eat.

  Northfield was a good four-hour ride and he was eager to get going. No way was he going to let Anderson hang.

  Draining his coffee mug, he packed his gear into his war bag, saddled up and set off.

  The ride to Northfield was uneventful, and he knew he’d have a week at most to bust Anderson from jail. When he was around an hour from the town, he reined in and found a sheltered spot where he’d wait till nightfall. Then he’d make his move.

  Again, he built a small fire, got the coffee brewing and slung some fat-back bacon and beans into a pan, then unsaddled and fed and watered his horse, before lying back and resting his head on the hard, Western saddle.

  It was the smell of the bacon and coffee that woke him from a shallow sleep. He ate from the pan and sipped at the coffee between mouthfuls.

  Feeling refreshed, Moon looked to the sky. In the west, the sun was beginning to lower and he knew that soon it would be dark, but he’d have to wait until at least midnight before he made his move.

  He’d planned in his head what he was going to do. He knew the layout of Northfield pretty well. He knew exactly where the livery stable was, and knew instinctively that Anderson’s horse would be stabled there, to be sold, no doubt, when they’d hanged him.

  The jail was small and unguarded and at midnight, the folks of Northfield would be sound asleep.

  His own horse was ground-hitched and chewing contentedly, so Moon lay back down and slept some more.