Reuben's Revenge Page 7

  It would be a long night.

  Reuben had a long and relaxing soak in the tub; a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigar in the either. He had never felt so good in his life.

  Reluctantly, he stood up and reached for a towel and dried himself off. Hanging on the back of the door was a dressing gown. The height of luxury, he thought.

  Standing by the window, cigar in hand, he watched as darkness fell and the stores began closing for the night. Shutters were drawn, and oil lamps extinguished.

  He watched as the lamp man walked down Main Street, lighting the street lamps that would burn till daybreak, then return to snuff them out and refill them with oil. His job for the day until nightfall came around again.

  Reuben stubbed out his cigar, removed the dressing gown and slipped on his long Johns, checked his Colts and hung the gun-belt on the bed post, placing one gun under his pillow before climbing into bed.

  The sheets were crisp and clean, and the bed cover as soft as down.

  He was in heaven and, within minutes, was asleep.

  Henry Moon woke with a start. The sound of a distant coyote’s howl echoed through the air. The fire had burned itself out and Moon shivered. Taking out his Huntsman pocket watch, he squinted at the timepiece.

  It was 11.30p.m. Time to get ready, but first he must have some coffee; it might be a while before he would have another opportunity to relax. He relit the fire and soon had the coffee pot warming up.

  The coyote’s howl was joined by another, then another. Moon’s horse began stomping his hoofs on the ground, clearly spooked. Moon reached into his saddlebag and filled his hat with some oats and barley mix and the horse calmed down as it ate.

  Moon made sure the fire was completely out, pouring cold coffee on it and kicking sand over its remains. He rolled up the bedroll in his tarp, then saddled up, tying the tarp securely, fitting the bridle and bit, and finally hitching his war bag on his pommel and saddlebags across the animal’s rump.

  Making sure he’d left no sign, he headed off at a walk towards Northfield.

  The Pinkerton Agents seemed to be everywhere and, in some cases, were as dangerous as the James-Younger gang. They tried every trick in the book to capture or kill – preferably kill – all the surviving gang members.

  Most of the gang had headed for Madelia, where they hoped they’d be safe before moving further afield.

  Meanwhile, Frank and Jesse had split from the rest of the gang and escaped to Missouri, safe for the time being.

  Henry Moon reached the outskirts of Northfield at 12.15 a.m. He avoided the lit main street and used the dark alleyways to make his way to the stables.

  Arriving at the rear entrance of the livery, Moon dismounted and tied his horse to a corral post. He pulled a Bowie knife from the sheath at his hip and peered through the plank door.

  One oil-lamp gave a dull, yellow light to the interior. Moon figured it was either for the old-timer who might be sleeping there, or for the benefit of the horses.

  Moon reckoned on the latter.

  He leaned gently on the door – it wasn’t even locked, so maybe the liveryman was asleep inside. He pushed at the door an inch at a time. The metal hinges creaked and in the silence of the night the horses inside the livery became jittery.

  Moon added more pressure to the door, so it moved a foot this time, and the hinges didn’t squeak. He slipped inside.

  He spotted Anderson’s horse straight away, the saddle resting on the barrier that separated the stalls.

  Then he heard the snoring.

  Turning, Moon saw the old-timer asleep on a pile of hay, a half-empty bottle of bourbon still gripped in his right hand.

  Moon smiled as he walked towards the sleeping man. His Bowie knife slid between the ribs, puncturing the heart. The livery man died without even knowing it.

  He carefully cleaned the bloody knife on the dead man’s shirt before returning it to its sheath.

  Grabbing hold of the old man’s legs, he hauled him onto the pile of hay and covered the body.

  He hunted round the stables and found what he was looking for: a stout rope.

  Then, saddling Anderson’s horse, he led it out of the stables and, keeping a hold on the reins, mounted his own horse and walked both animals to the rear of the jail and tethered them to a post.

  He crept up to the rear of the jail and peered through the first of three cells. There was no glass, just iron bars.

  The cell was empty, so he moved to the next, also empty. He edged to the last cell and saw Anderson asleep on a small cot.

  Moon looped one end of the rope through the cell bars and pulled so the ends were even. Then he hooked one end of the rope to Anderson’s pommel, the other end he tied to his own.

  Grabbing the reins of Anderson’s horse, he held those of both horses and yanked hard. The animals, taken by surprise, rushed forward, pulling the rope taut and the air was filled with the sound of the cell bars being wrenched from the jail and clattering on the ground.

  Hell, thought Moon, you coulda kicked them out!

  A face, lined with pain, appeared at the window. Moon coiled the rope as he calmed the horses.

  ‘What ya waitin’ fer?’ called Moon.

  ‘I got a bullet in my leg,’ Anderson said. ‘I need some help here.’

  Henry Moon ambled towards Anderson and gripped him under his arms and pulled. Anderson winced, but using his good leg, managed to help Moon and then dropped to the ground.

  Anderson wanted to scream in agony, but gritted his teeth, aware that it would be heard by someone.

  Moon pulled him up onto his horse.

  ‘Mount to the left,’ Moon said. ‘I’ll help with your right then we ride and find a doc in the next town north.’

  Moon led Anderson out of Northfield by the same route he had entered.

  The night was moonless, dark clouds were still scudding across the sky as Anderson and Moon set off at a steady trot which soon slowed to a walk. The last thing either man wanted was a lame mount.

  They had been riding for three hours when Anderson reined in.

  ‘I gotta rest awhiles. My leg’s hurting something awful. The doc in Northfield didn’t bother taking out the slug as they were planning to hang me the next day.’

  Moon made no response.

  ‘There’s a tree yonder, you can rest up there,’ Moon said. ‘I’ll ride into town and get a doc out here, pronto.’

  Helping Anderson down, he leaned him against the tree and mounted up. ‘I’ll be back as quick as I can,’ Moon added, before setting off for town.

  Dawn was approaching so Henry Moon was able to travel at a gallop.

  It was half an hour later that he saw smoke in the distance.

  He dug out his Huntsman and checked the time: it was 5.30 a.m. He’d have to wake the doc, of that he was certain.

  He rode into town, which looked like many towns he’d ridden into. Clapboard buildings, a saloon, barber shop, general shop, livery stable and finally, he saw a sign: Duncan Mackay MD.

  Dismounting, Moon took out his Colt; he doubted the doc would come willingly, and rapped hard on the door.

  ‘Goddammit!’ a gruff voice came from inside the doctor’s house/surgery. ‘What the hell you want at this time o’ the day?’ he grumbled.

  ‘You gotta take a bullet out o’ my pal’s leg,’ Moon said.

  ‘Well, bring him in then,’ Mackay said reluctantly.

  ‘Can’t do that. He’s an hour’s ride away so get your gear together. Now!’

  ‘I ain’t ridin’ out,’ the doc said.

  ‘See this?’ Moon said as he levelled his Colt. ‘Get your gear together!’

  The doctor gulped. ‘I gotta dress first,’ he almost whispered.

  ‘I’ll be right behind you,’ Moon replied.

  After dressing, Moon helped Mackay hitch up his buggy and the two men set off.

  It wasn’t full daylight yet, but as they left town, lights began to be lit as people prepared for their day’s
labour.

  Moon didn’t notice the twitching of a drape in one of the smaller houses as a woman saw the doctor in his buggy with a man riding a horse, his gun drawn.

  William Clarke and Alexander Adams were a hundred miles south of Northfield when they overheard the news of the failed bank robbery in a saloon.

  Like all passed-on stories and rumours, the news grew out of all proportion.

  Hundreds were killed. Thousands of dollars were taken. And the James-Younger gang had escaped, scott-free!

  Clarke and Adams could hardly believe their ears.

  ‘Damn!’ Clarke muttered. ‘We goddamn missed out!’

  Adams ignored this remark as he moved closer to the group of men, trying to glean as much information as he could.

  He didn’t believe for one moment that hundreds were killed. But he wasn’t so sure that the amount of money was made up.

  ‘ ’Scuse me fellas,’ Adams said, ‘where’d you hear this news?’

  ‘Fella in the corner, yonder,’ the man pointed to a corner table and a man surrounded by beer, but sitting alone.

  Adams didn’t say another word but walked back to Clarke, who was downing whiskey like water.

  ‘Hold down on that drinking,’ Adams said. ‘I’m gonna have a chat with that fella in the corner. He’s the one who brought the story into town.’

  ‘What good’s that gonna do?’ Clarke replied.

  ‘I wanna know what’s right and what really happened up there in Northfield. Jesse ain’t no fool. He wouldn’t try robbing a bank without knowing it was safe to do so. Wait here. I’ll be back, and don’t drink any more until I do.’

  Clarke nodded.

  Adams walked across the saloon and stood at the man’s table.

  ‘Mind if’n I join you?’ Adams asked.

  ‘Sure thing, mister. Help yourself.’

  ‘Mind telling me what really happened up in Northfield?’ Adams asked.

  ‘I already tol’ what happened,’ the old-timer said.

  ‘I know what you told them fellas at the bar, there, that’s how come this table is full of free beer.’ Adams paused. ‘You see my left hand on the table?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Cos my right hand is holding a pistol aimed at your beer belly,’ Adam stated calmly.

  The man’s jaw dropped, and he slowly lowered his glass to the table.

  Shaking, his voice like a whisper as fear gripped him, he related what had really happened in Northfield.

  ‘So the Youngers are badly wounded?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Three other members of the gang were killed outright.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ Adams asked.

  ‘Locked in the doc’s basement, under guard. They’re waitin’ for the circuit judge to arrive.’

  ‘And the rest of the gang?’ Adams still held his right hand under the table.

  ‘High-tailed it faster than a coyote chasin’ a rabbit. Headed north, far as I could figure,’ the old-timer said.

  ‘And Frank and Jesse?’ Adams asked.

  ‘Oh, they got away all right. Town council got a posse goin’ after ’em, but them’s city folk. Doubt they’d catch ’em.’

  ‘Enjoy your beer, old man,’ Adams said, and left the table.

  The old-timer picked up his beer, hands still shaking and managed a big gulp before lighting a small, half-smoked cheroot.

  Adams related the true story to Clarke and the two men finished their drinks and left the saloon.

  They headed north.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reuben’s eyes opened with a start. There was no noise and for a moment or two he wondered where he was.

  He reached for his Hunter. It was 11 a.m.

  Damn, he thought, I’ve missed breakfast!

  He quickly washed and dressed, hoping he’d at least get a coffee or two.

  He left the room, locking the door behind him and made his way to the lobby.

  The desk clerk immediately guided him to the restaurant and a pot of coffee appeared as if by magic.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Chisholm. I trust you slept well?’

  ‘I sure did,’ Reuben answered.

  ‘Breakfast will be with you in a short while,’ the desk clerk told him.

  ‘That’s mighty good of you,’ Reuben said. ‘I thought breakfast finished at ten.’

  ‘Not for you, Mr Chisholm,’ the clerk said, and excused himself.

  It took ten minutes for the breakfast to arrive – it barely fit on the plate – and five minutes to eat it!

  Pouring himself another coffee, Reuben sat back and relaxed. He still had a job to do, but for ten minutes he was at peace with the world until. . . .

  ‘Mr Chisholm! Mr Chisholm!’

  A cowboy rushed into the restaurant, quickly removing his bowler hat. ‘Mr Chisholm, sir, that Anderson fella has been busted out of jail!’

  Reuben almost jumped out of his chair. ‘How the hell?’

  ‘Seems someone pulled the bars and most of the rear wall down,’ the cowboy informed him.

  Reuben grabbed his Stetson and rushed from the restaurant. He wanted to see the site for himself.

  At the back of the jail, over a dozen men had gathered, gawping.

  Reuben took a brief look at the jail wall and the bars that wouldn’t keep a child in and then stepped back, looking for sign.

  The ground round the jail had been trampled so he moved further back, looking from side to side.

  He spotted two sets of hoof-prints heading north. He ran to the livery and readied his horse.

  Mounting up, he slowly walked his horse along the trail, noting Main Street had been avoided. The trail went left and then right, running parallel to Main, but the dirt road was little used at night as it was unlit, so the tracks were easy to follow as they left town, still heading north.

  As much as he wanted to find the two men who had killed his wife, he wasn’t about to let Anderson get away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The doc reined in his buggy and clambered to the ground, grabbing his medical bag as he approached the stricken man.

  The first thing he took out of his bag was a bottle of laudanum.

  ‘Here, you’ll need this,’ he said.

  Anderson grabbed the bottle and pulled the cork out with his teeth. He didn’t say a word as he took a mighty mouthful.

  ‘Hey, careful with that stuff. It’s addictive,’ the doc said.

  ‘Add— what?’ Anderson asked.

  ‘It means you’ll need to keep takin’ it,’ Moon said as if talking to an idiot.

  ‘What, forever?’ Anderson asked.

  ‘Right up till it kills you,’ Mackay added.

  Undeterred, Anderson took another swig at the bottle. The laudanum was having an effect. He felt light-headed and pain free.

  ‘Let’s cut the chit-chat. Get that leg fixed, Doc. Pronto!’ Moon said.

  ‘Well, let’s hope the sewin’ on the wound is better than on these jeans, looks like a child did it,’ the doctor said.

  Anderson looked up at him and said, ‘there ain’t no sewing on the wound. Sheriff said weren’t worth the effort.’ Anderson smiled then, his eyes half closed, the effects of the laudanum taking over.

  Pulling apart Anderson’s trouser leg, the doctor looked at the wound. It was just a small hole and hadn’t passed through, but was lodged in the thick muscle of the man’s thigh.

  ‘Looks like a .22,’ the doc said. ‘Should be easy enough to get out.’ He reached into his bag and retrieved a thin pair of tweezers that looked more like pliers.

  ‘This’ll hurt a tad,’ he said. ‘You got any whiskey?’

  Moon reached into his saddlebags and brought out a bottle. He pulled the cork out and took a mighty swig before handing it to Mackay.

  ‘Take a couple o’ mouthfuls,’ the doc told Anderson, who was only too willing.

  He took the bottle away from Anderson, wiped the top with a clean handkerchief and took a swig himself, before pouring some on
the open wound.

  Anderson gritted his teeth together as the whiskey burned into the small hole, but he made no sound.

  The doc then inserted the tweezers until he felt the hardness of the bullet. Deftly, he widened the tweezers and got a good grip of the slug. Slowly, he pulled it out. All the while Anderson didn’t utter a sound, but sweat was pouring down his face.

  ‘There it is,’ Mackay said, holding the bullet up for Anderson to see.

  ‘I’ll keep that, Doc,’ Anderson said. ‘A souvenir.’

  ‘I ain’t finished yet,’ the doc said. ‘Take another swig o’ whiskey, maybe put this twig between your teeth and grip hard.’

  Taking out a small bottle, he unscrewed the top and tipped a small amount of black powder over the wound.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Mackay.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ Anderson said, knowing what was coming up. He gripped the twig between his teeth and closed his eyes.

  Taking a Lucifer from his vest pocket, the doctor ignited the black powder. There was a small flash that lasted a mere second and soon the smell of burning flesh filled the air.

  ‘There, that’ll stop any infection.’ He took a small, white pad from his bag and placed it over the wound, then a clean bandage to bind the leg.

  ‘Try and keep off the leg for a few days. After that you should be fine.’ The doctor began to pack his bag.

  ‘How much do I owe you, Doc?’ Anderson asked.

  ‘No charge,’ he replied. ‘Another day or two and you’d be dead.’

  Then he froze.

  Behind him, he heard a mighty slap and a shot fired into the air. He turned to see his horse and buggy careening down the trail.

  ‘Can’t let you live, Doc,’ Moon said matter of factly.

  ‘You can’t kill me,’ Mackay said. ‘I got patients who might die and pregnant women to attend to. I won’t say a word about this, you have my word as a doctor and humanitarian.’

  Reuben reined in abruptly. Ahead, he could see the rear end of a buggy and a man holding a gun, standing to the right of the trail.

  He was too far away to get a good look at the man’s face, so, ground-tethering his horse, he inched forward, using the trees as cover, careful not to step on dead branches or twigs.