SCAVENGERS: A Porter Rockwell Adventure (Dark Trails Saga Book 1) Page 3

  “Well, I suppose I had to be evasive after I took the map from the Indian. The Cotterells only know half the story and sure they want the gold, but if you’re partnered with me they wouldn’t dare do anything.”

  It was not lost on Porter that a sizeable crowd for such a small outpost could have been watching and listening in to Dirty McCurdie’s diatribe. There had to be an explanation on why the Cotterells tried to bushwhack him, thinking he already had the bone map.

  “What do you say?” asked Ferdie.

  Porter beckoned for Ferdie to follow him. They walked a short distance toward the riverside. The gathering crowd watched just some little ways off. Porter wanted them all to see. He snatched the bone map from Ferdie’s calloused hands. He glanced it over once more then threw it in the air and shot it. Splinters of white bone showered into the Green River and were whisked away in the strong current.

  “No!” Ferdie screamed in anguish and dropped to his knees.

  “There. No more map, no more danger from any other idiots who believe that cock-and-bull story.”

  “You shouldn’t a done that mister,” drawled a thin, stringy-haired man with a hatchet face. His cheeks were so hollow he looked like an animated scarecrow. His black hat and duster were covered equally in a film of red dust. Beside him a portly man with sleepy-looking eyes held a shotgun at his side, it was clear he could throw down with it in an instant. Though they each stood more than ten paces from Porter, they both had a primal rotten stink wafting off their dirty bodies.

  “Oh?” questioned Porter, right back.

  The scarecrow nodded and pushed back the flap of his duster, revealing a pair of ivory handled six-shooters. “I’m afraid I need to take custody of Mister McCurdie. You can vamoose on out of here if you know what’s good for you.”

  Townsfolk that had gathered to see what the ruckus was immediately retreated off to the side when they saw the four men eyeballing each other.

  “That’s Thin-Man Johnson. They say he’s fast as lighting and too narrow to get hit by anyone,” said Ferdie, his voice going hoarse.

  “Shut yer pie-hole,” said Porter.

  “What’d you say, Mister?” asked the scarecrow.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Slim, but you might wanna take a walk yourself.” Porter nodded at the deputy Marshal’s badge on his chest. “You and your girlfriend.”

  The scarecrow gave a lop-sided grin but his face grew dark as a thunderhead washing over the mountains. “Slim? I take that as an insult, Mister. And my partner, Breed, he doesn’t think that’s very funny either. Do ya Breed?”

  Breed grunted, “Yeah, who are ya?”

  “It’s Marshal Rockwell, and you take it any way you like.”

  Breed blanched, though he tried to keep his poker face going, but behind his façade, Porter sensed Breed was more than afraid. As he should have been.

  Scarecrow swallowed, but he wasn’t about to back down either. He whispered, “You got my back, Breed?”

  Breed didn’t answer and did not raise his shotgun.

  Scarecrow flexed his claw-like fingers just inches from his six-gun. He took a deep breath saying, “I’ve heard a lot about you too then. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I’m Thin-Man Johnson. I shot down—”

  “Nope,” said Porter. “Never heard of you.”

  “What?” blurted out Scarecrow.

  “Beat it,” said Porter, “Be smart.” He pointed toward the horizon.

  Scarecrow adjusted his hat and flexed his fingers again. Rocking back and forth on his toes a moment, he said, “I believe I have a debt to settle with you, Sir.”

  “No, you don’t. Walk away.”

  “I can’t do that,” said the Scarecrow, his voice cracking.

  Porter gauged that the Scarecrow wasn’t likely even twenty years old yet. He picked a fine time for a life and death lesson from the Destroying Angel himself. “You better, Slim, or it’ll hurt.”

  Scarecrow snarled as sweat ran down his brow, assaulting his eyes, he blinked. “I’m asking you to draw.”

  Porter pushed Ferdie to the ground and casually picked up a thumb-sized rock as he did so. He stood, gauged the wind, and threw the stone like Thor’s hammer.

  It hit Thin-Man Johnson square in the forehead. He dropped like the proverbial scarecrow cut loose from his station.

  Breed held his hands up, “I don’t want no trouble.” He turned and quickly walked away, leaving his dazed partner in the dust.

  Townsfolk rushed in like crows to the garden.

  Striding over, Porter examined the freshly laid goose egg on Johnson’s skull. “He’ll be all right. Eventually.”

  “Is he dead?” asked a traveling salesman.

  “He ought to be, damned gunslinger,” said the barkeep

  “Lynch him if he’s breathing, toss him in the river if he ain’t,” said a long mustachioed ferryman.

  Porter held his hands up, “There ain’t gonna be a lynching. If he is coherent, he can ride out same as anyone. But take them pearl-handled beauties. He ain’t gonna need them anymore. Somebody bid on them and I want the balance sent to the Widow Sarah up in Price.”

  “It’ll be done, Porter,” said the ferryman.

  “What about the Thin-Man?” asked the barkeep.

  “Tell him I said to get a new occupation. He ought to make a fine farmer,” said Porter.

  Ferdie had been covering his eyes. He now blinked in surprise. “I knew you were fast too, but, gee-wilickers.”

  “Shut up,” said Porter, with a snarl. He forced Ferdie around as he hogtied the old man’s hands, then hoisted him onto a horse, since his hands were still tied. He mounted his own Appaloosa and led them out of the Ferry-town.

  “This mean we’re partners?” asked Ferdie, as he bounced along stretched over the saddle.

  “Nope, partners would entail some kind of split, some kind of shared venture. No, we ain’t partners.”

  “What? Then why are you doing this?”

  “Cuz if I left your sorry ass back there, the next scavenging bastard would haul you up and lead you down this road to ruin. No, you’re gonna pay the piper in Cedar City with Judge Shaffer and this bone map business is done,” said Porter, as they rode over the hill.

  ***

  Inside the tent saloon, a dark-eyed man in a faded Union army blue-coat watched Porter and Ferdie from the shadows. He waited until they vanished over the horizon, finished his whiskey sour then mounted his own horse to follow them.

  ***

  “Zplash zome vater on zhem,” ordered the Reverend.

  A bucket was poured over the top of Thin-Man Johnson. He sputtered awake, blinking against the evening sun in the west. Then the shadow of the Reverend loomed over him.

  “You did not get zee map, did you?”

  Thin-Man gulped. “No sir. I understand that it was destroyed.”

  “Liez!” shot the Reverend.

  “It’s true,” said Breed. “That marshal, he shot the bone map right afore we could get it. It’s gone.”

  The Reverend turned about and waved off some of the gathering townsfolk. “I don’t vant to hear your excusez, I need resultz. Do you vant me to let Mowbray have his way with you?” A huge bear of a man stood behind the Reverend and let his massive gnarled fist slam into the opposite palm. He looked like he would enjoy making bread from their bones.

  “No sir,” mumbled Thin-Man Johnson, looking down and away like he was back in the corner school room with a dunce hat upon his head.

  The Reverend perked up with an idea. “Zhat damn fool zhat carried zee map? He ztill knowz more zhan any man. He could ztill zhow uz zee vay. Vee need him. I need him more zhan I do you foolz.”

  Thin-Man rubbed at his goose-egg. It had swollen large enough he couldn’t pull his hat down to hide it. “We’ll find a way, sir. We’ll just have to bushwhack them.”

  The Reverend peered down at them, like a butterfly collector stares at his insects. “Zee zhat you do. I von’t be zo forgiving a zecond time.
” He started walking away, when he turned and asked. “Who vas zhat marshal anyvay?”

  Thin-Man frowned. “Orrin Porter Rockwell.”

  “The Destroying Angel,” added Breed.

  The Reverends face crumpled at that revelation. “Captain Thorn zaid to be vary of him. You vetter take a few more gunz. I’ll zend Clem, Ben und Macy vith you. Get going.” He then signaled to a trio of gunmen and had them go with Thin-Man and Breed. The five of them rode out in a cloud of dust beneath a red sunset.

  3. Partners

  Out in the high desert it gets powerful cold awful fast. Porter had them make camp at the bottom of a draw where he was confident it would be difficult for anyone to see their campfire along with having the shelter of a few scraggly trees to tether their horses.

  “Times like this I miss having my dog. Best watchman I’ve ever known,” said Porter, as he reclined on his bedroll beside the crackling fire.

  Dirty McCurdie chimed in, “I wouldn’t have thought you for a dog lover.”

  Porter scoffed, “You think I’d like cats?”

  “No, no, just didn’t think you liked animals is all. You seem too . . . cruel.”

  Porter sniffed at that. “I like animals. Horses are among the most noble beasts on God’s green earth, ‘specially if you have a good one. There’s bad, too, just like anything, but I’ll tell you why I love dogs. Dogs represent the most noble of all human attributes.”

  “You mean virtues?”

  “Sure, virtues. A dog is kind, forgiving, brave on most occasions, and especially loyal, nigh unto death. Your average family dog would die for his master and his kin if need be. You’ll find no truer friend than a good dog. But the cat—the cat represents all vices of human nature. The cat is selfish, greedy, vain; the most a cat will do for its master is allow you to pet it. Not that a cat thinks of man as its master, no sir, it’s the other way around. Why a cat wouldn’t lift a paw in defense of its home and hearth but would likely as not sup on your flesh after the vagabonds killed you and violated your wife and daughter. Cats ain’t ever earned their keep but what they wanted to do on their own anyhow. I’ve seen too many mousers got to rot soon as they get even a hint of table scraps,” said Porter, with some venom. “Cats, bah!”

  Ferdie agreed. “yeah, but I did see a cat once who earned its keep. There was a man down on his luck, hard times after the war, well, he would take this cat under his arm and he would walk up to the fine wealthy homes down south. Now they would see this poor beggar coming a mile away and right off they would throw up their defenses that they weren’t about to give any handouts to loafers or carpet baggers. But he would say ‘No, Ma’am nothing for me but perhaps if I might ask the kind lady of the house if I could get just a pinch of salt, nothing more, because I’m so terribly hungry and am going to have to eat my only friend, this here cat. Well I tell you what, every damn time, that lady of the house would bring that poor wayfarer in and feed him a huge home cooked meal. She’d feed the cat too!” Ferdie smiled broadly.

  “I’m guessing you were that carpet-bagging wayfarer.”

  Ferdie doffed his cap, “That I was.”

  The fire died down and Porter didn’t bother to stoke it. He planned on letting the darkness conceal them out in the cold hills. When he had untied Dirty McCurdie, he had looped a near invisible line around the man’s foot just enough to give warning if the fool tried to run in the night. But the old man was snoring and he didn’t think Ferdie would try and run.

  Porter watched his breath steam into the freezing dark. Stars winked overhead and morning couldn’t come soon enough. Somewhere a lonely wolf howled as hoar frost formed like creeping death.

  ***

  Porter blinked at the rosy-hued dawn. He was exhausted but wondered why he had awoken so suddenly. He felt for the cord he had tied to Dirty McCurdie’s ankle. It was still there, as was the old man himself snoring across from the coals which were now sputtering to life like a phoenix reborn.

  Porter blinked again at the tiny flames licking over a handful of fresh twigs. Curious, the fire should be cold as the dead by now.

  Rolling over suddenly, Porter saw an older black man clad in a faded union jacket sitting across from him on a saddle. The man winked with sharp dark eyes beneath his wide brimmed hat. He tossed another handful of twigs into the flames.

  “Pardon, I didn’t mean to wake you but it is daybreak, you know,” said the man, motioning to sky above. “I normally wouldn’t have bad enough manners to just sneak up on a body sleeping, but I wanted you to know I have skills. If I had meant you any harm I could have done it already.”

  “Obliged,” said Porter, suspiciously. He rolled, getting to his feet in an instant. “Wake up McCurdie, we have company.”

  “I was about to set some coffee brewing,” said the stranger, jiggling his dented coffee pot. “May I?”

  Porter motioned for him to go ahead. “Got a name, stranger?”

  The stranger laughed, “I do. Where are my manners? I’m Quincy Cuthbert Jackson. And no need to introduce yourselves I know who you both are, after all that’s why I’m here. I want to join you on this expedition.”

  Dirty McCurdie had thrown back his bedroll and was staring at Quincy. “You! Porter! Get rid of that polecat!”

  Porter looked from Ferdie to Quincy. “You two know each other then?”

  “Indeed we do,” said Quincy. “Seems Mr. McCurdie reneged on a deal he made with me two nights ago and I aim to hold him to his word and include me in the extraction of same.”

  “Renege this! Nigger!” spouted Ferdie, giving the finger to Quincy.

  Porter intervened. “That was unkind Ferdie, but I gotta tell you, Quincy, we ain’t on any expedition. I’m taking Dirty McCurdie here to Judge Shaffer in Cedar City. That’s it. Anything he told you about treasure in the Swell is just that—a bloated swell of a tale. Nothing to it.”

  Quincy raised a hand. “No offense, it is Deputy Marshal Rockwell, isn’t it? But I saw the bone map myself. I know how many men have died for it already. It’s as real as money in the bank.”

  Porter was more than aware of Quincy’s gun belt and the man’s semi-sophisticated demeanor didn’t hide that his six-guns looked well used. A lot more so than what Thin-Man Johnson’s had. “Quincy, I don’t know what Ferdie promised you and I don’t really care, but I’m taking him to the judge. I suspect he fed you the same hogwash he did me, and as you can see we aren’t heading that direction.”

  “That’s fine, that’s fine. Do your duty Marshal Rockwell, and then afterward you and I can go after it,” said Quincy. “I have more than enough supplies on the mule there. I have a buckboard waiting for us back at the ferry too.”

  “Hey!” blurted Ferdie. “You can’t cut me out!”

  “Nobody’s cutting you out of anything,” said Porter. “Sorry Quincy, I don’t have time to chase after fairytales.”

  Quincy made as if to say something but was cut off by Ferdie. “Shut your mouth! Nigger!” shouted Ferdie.

  Porter backhanded him. “That’s enough.”

  Quincy grinned while retrieving his coffee pot from the coals. He poured himself a cup then motioned to Porter to take some as he sipped, saying, “I understand your reluctance, Marshal Rockwell. I really do. But I’m beginning to suspect that as much as Ferdie told you, he left out a few notable details.”

  “Such as?”

  Sitting himself down on his saddle again, Quincy sipped his coffee and Porter could tell that the man was going to enjoy what he was about to relate. “Before trying to employ your services, Mr. McCurdie has gone through several prospective applicants already. Most all of them are dead now.” He pointed a long finger at McCurdie. “The exceptions being myself and the Cotterell brothers. But like vultures circling a dying man, there are other scavengers coming too. Everyone wants a piece of the pie and ‘MmmMmm’ does it look good. You see, in his haste to get a troop together and go after this treasure, and it is treasure—take my word for it, he scattered the
scent of gold a little too wide. It’s like he spread a feast that not only attracted all the ants and flies, but ravens too, a whole flock of vultures, then a wolf pack; and now maybe even a bear. You get my meaning?”

  “I got ya. What are you then Quincy? A fly or a bear?”

  Quincy laughed. “You’re the bear, Rockwell.”

  Rockwell grimaced. “Ain’t none of that anything I didn’t surmise. When that kid Thin-Man Johnson tried to stop us I knew there wasn’t a bounty for Dirty McCurdie yet, but there had to be something.”

  “No bounty among the law yet, but to the outlaw, that’s another thing entirely.”

  Porter’s hand was on his pommel. “You saying something I ain’t heard yet?”

  Quincy gave his best disarming grin and held his hands out and away from his gun belt. “No, don’t you worry about me. But I am saying there is a whole lot of greedy scavengers coming that want a piece of old Dirty McCurdie because of what he was saying and flashing around.”

  “Flashing what where?”

  “You’re in luck Marshal. I have it here.” Quincy reached inside his coat and pulled something out, it was small and glittered. It caught the rising sun like a match, glaring vibrant, reckless light. Quincy tossed it to Rockwell who caught the tiny yet incredibly heavy piece. It was half the size of his palm and rectangular. There was curious writing on it that Porter couldn’t even come close to reading. It reminded him of some hieroglyphs he had seen on a mummy once a long time ago. And yes, it was undoubtedly gold.

  Rockwell looked up at Quincy.

  The grinning black man continued, “I got that from Mr. McCurdie there when he was flashing the three pieces he had around. Seems he was perhaps a little more honest with us in the Roost. Big mistake. One thing led to another and I was able to get out of there with my skin and just one of the gold pieces. As you can plainly see, its real all right. And when Mr. McCurdie related to us how he stole them from a poor Indian shaman’s apprentice he swindled, we all knew this was something tangible. You see Mr. McCurdie killed that Ute and stole those gold pieces from that poor drunk who was just hoping to exchange them for a little whiskey. He tortured the poor soul and when he got the information he wanted, he killed him. He then came to the Roost for help, since he knew he couldn’t handle the Utes himself. Problem is, he couldn’t handle that pack of outlaws either.”