Six-Gun Serenade: A Porter Rockwell Adventure (Dark Trails Saga Book 0) Page 5

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  For the next four weeks Saul Reynolds sat in the jail in Pioche, feeling like he was rotting while Judge Parker determined what to do about him. After a full month and a day, he was suddenly set free without any explanation from the court other than a simple: Demurrer and Dismissal.

  Reynolds gathered his meager belongings from a sharp nosed little courtroom clerk. He signed the release papers but had to ask. “De-Mur-Er? What the hell does that mean?”

  The clerk sighed and answered, “It means you’re free to go. The case is over. It’s been dismissed. Done. Finale. Over. You’ve wasted enough of this courts time.”

  “Me? But why? Where is Sheriff Roberts?”

  “He is permanently indisposed.”

  “All right then, but the De-Mur-Er?”

  “Demurrer. It means that new evidence was found that pointed out that you were not guilty,” said the clerk.

  “What evidence?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Just be grateful that you’re a free man and good day to you.” With that the weaselly little clerk slammed the shutters on his station, leaving Reynolds to ponder his luck.

  He scratched his head and stepped out into the bright Nevada sunlight. It was a long ride back and he hoped for a drink at the Pontoon Saloon once he got there.

  When he reached the Pontoon, everyone clapped him on the shoulder and shouted hellos over their beer and whiskey, Lily gave him a kiss on the cheek and everyone proclaimed how glad they were to see him, everyone that is except Spooner.

  “Where’s the Spoon?”

  “You don’t know?” asked Paiute Pete.

  “No, I’ve been in the hole for the last month cooling my heels. What’s going on?”

  “Oh well then, sit down,” said the Deertick.

  They dropped a tumbler and bottle in front of Saul and all began at once.

  “Slow down, get it to me straight, Deertick.”

  “Well, after you was in jail, and a little while later, Spooner, Sheriff Roberts and Mortician Williams, they got to being real mysterious like. Always sneaking around at night and the like. Well one night we followed ‘em out toward the old Ferguson place and we seen ‘em digging with a lantern after dark, right near the bend in the river, just before the crossing, you know it.”

  “I know it,” said Reynolds, remembering the exact spot of the Money Light.

  The Deertick continued, “Well, they did that for a couple odd days. The third night we was watching ‘em, we saw some ghost lights dancing through the mesquite real quick like and we decided that it t’weren’t no good and we ought to stay away.”

  Reynolds agreed, “I thought there was something awful fishy going on. It was like they didn’t want me around.”

  “Sure enough, one night, none of ‘em came back,” said the Deertick with some somber finality.

  Reynolds finished his beer and asked, “What do you mean they never came back? Did they find the gold of the Money Light? They left the territory?”

  “No,” said the Deertick.

  “What then?”

  “We rode out there the next morning and all of ‘em was in the sand.”

  “Sand?”

  “That’s right. Just their boots was sticking out of the hole they had been digging.”

  “What?”

  The Deertick affirmed. “Six boots were heels up in a depression of sand.”

  Reynolds was irritated, “Well? Where did they go?”

  Paiute Pete could take no more. “They’s dead.”

  “Huh?” asked Reynolds in shock.

  The Deertick nodded. “Only their boots were sticking out. They was all upside down and drowned in the dirt. All three of ‘em.”

  Lily put her arm around Reynolds saying, “We were hoping you maybe had some answers.”

  Saul Reynolds laughed coldly a moment. “Sometimes we don’t get nearly all the answers we want, but this is the best I can reckon. They followed that Money Light to a cursed treasure and they got what was coming to them, maybe for trying to cut me out of it, but more likely them Ferguson’s was cursed real powerful and are holding onto that treasure til Judgment Day.”

  “So are you saying it’s yours and we should go after it?”

  “Oh Hell’s no. That treasure is cursed real good and one way or t’other its will turn bad for anyone that goes after it. It’s blood money from dirty doings of the Fergusons and there’s no way I’ll touch it. We are gonna sit right here, play some cards, drink some whiskey and forget about the whole thing for all our sakes. Next round is on me!”

  Everyone cheered and splashed their bottles together.

  Everyone except Paiute Pete. He was slipping out the back door to where he knew a shovel was. He wasn’t afraid of any curse.

  END

  Next is a teaser first chapter from the soon to be releasedSCAVENGERS

  If you’ve enjoyed things so far, it only gets better.

  SCAVENGERS

  (Book One in the Dark Trails Saga)

  No matter how hungry, the vulture will never eat grass. — African Proverb

  1.

  The steady trot of his horse, Hoss, on hard-packed earth kept a rhythmic beat making Porter think he was listening to a demon’s drum. The whipping wind carried sound and dust across the wastelands in strange barrages like a cat o’ nine tails delivering their sting. Filtering through all of that was an eerie tinkling as if from the great beyond. Porter could swear that out here in this high lonesome desert he was hearing a jaunty piano tune. Was he going crazy from the heat? The music of keys raced up and down the scales. Was it “Oh! Susannah’”? He had to wonder a moment, and his gaze was directed to a black-winged vulture circling high above, patient as a chopping block.

  He paused, letting the gasps of wind relay the jovial dance of ebony and ivory. Taking his bearing against the sun, Porter deemed he was less than halfway between the Book Cliffs and the Green River ferry. It shouldn’t be too much farther. Porter thought he would have found the river by now, but so far there was no sign of it or any other water for that matter.

  Porter tapped the last few drops of his canteen into his dry mouth, then took off his hat to wipe away the beading sweat on his dirty brow. His long dark hair fell about his shoulders, and he sat up in his stirrups a moment to stretch. The wind suddenly carried the now mournful piano tune with renewed vigor.

  He was hot on the trail of a horse thief who had robbed a nice old widow. She had seemed more upset about the stolen elder berry pie than the horse and gun, but Porter was deputy marshal and had a job to do. He would find the man known as Dirty Ferdie McCurdie and bring the rascal to justice. Porter hadn’t wanted to go traipsing out into the badlands but it had been his own bad luck to be the nearest lawman, so he had to go after Dirty McCurdie. Luckily, he had picked up the trail and guessed that the thief couldn’t be more than two or so days ahead.

  “Let’s get on with this, Hoss,” he said to his appaloosa stallion. The animal snorted and flared its nostrils. It caught the hint of moisture and perked its ears at the melancholy song still drifting across the wind like the scent of a lost love.

  They trotted briskly up and over a hill that was bald as an egg. Below them was the wide twisting Green River. The sound of the piano however was richer now but coming from around the side of the draw and twisting along with the river just out of sight. Porter kicked into the horse’s flanks and raced in that unknown and inviting direction.

  As he rounded the bend, Porter spied the source of the eerie music. A trio of wagons were dashed along the rocks at edge of the river like ships cast from the maelstrom. Two were knocked on their sides halfway underwater but the last one was upright, albeit missing its wheels, with the player piano in the back. The instrument was splashed with green waters and not more than a few inches were submerged. It played a ghostly melody for a dead audience. Some few bodies were bloating under the sun despite the cool waters. A pair of dead oxen had been used for target practice along with four mules and t
hree horses. Someone had been awful cruel and non-discriminating in their bloodlust. Bodies were cast about the scene, leaking gunshot wounds or jutting arrows marking their gruesome demise.

  The piano abruptly stopped. Porter drew his Navy Colt, ready for anything. But only the river, the wind, and the lone vulture wheeling high above gave any sign of life. The piano coughed, sputtered, and started over, it wasn’t “Oh! Susannah’” but some other song, Porter couldn’t quite place, a sad song that he thought he knew from his youth.

  Looking over the ruin, Porter dismounted and examined one of the striped arrow shafts. Near as he could tell they were not from any tribe he was aware of, not Ute, Paiute, or Shoshone. Maybe Apache, but here? He wondered what other tribe could have been in this area but figured the most likely of explanations was what he called White Indians; bandits pretending to be Indians to better hide their crimes. Any other actual tribe would have been a long way from their tribal territories, but anything was possible. He looked for more sign of trouble and found several tequila bottles and the barest end of a cigar butt. Any valuables save the piano, which was too heavy for bandits to move, were gone. A flour keg was dumped over and soaking in water, and some few women’s clothes had been cast aside too.

  Porter gauged the attack couldn’t have been more than a day or so old. It was a practiced skill that he could tell the time by the condition of the dead. It wasn’t a talent he liked telling people he had. That lone vulture was still circling overhead. Had the piano kept it at bay?

  He let Hoss graze on the vegetation beside the river and began to do the proper thing for the dead. They deserved rest. Terrible work as it was, he dragged the few bodies into a pile where he could try and cover them with stones rather than attempt to dig into the hard-packed ground. He didn’t have a shovel but figured head-sized boulders would keep the coyotes and vultures off of them.

  The vulture high overhead gave an ominous cry. It was midday and he had nearly finished his task when something bony white caught the corner of his eye. He looked closer to see what begged for his attentions.

  A cracked, grinning skull beside a red sandstone boulder leered as if it was privy to a joke at his expense. “We’re all born the same and end the same,” mused Porter, guessing that the eerie music made him more introspective than usual.

  If Porter could have found himself somewhere else, anywhere else, he sure as Hell would have. Even excluding the present grim company, this bleached desert gave no quarter. There had been no reprieve from the burning sun, freezing moon, and biting sands carried aloft on the wings of invisible ghouls. This was Purgatory if ever there was one, where the skeletons of the dead knew only eternal torment and damnation. Especially when you thought you were alone, voices would seem to whisper on the ever-present wind, beckoning, taunting, promising sweet relief if you would but join them in the stretching fingers of that vast darkness.

  The Utes said that it was the spirits of those who came before, the Anasazi or some such primordial vanished peoples. Anasazi meant something like the ancient enemy. But Porter didn’t have to worry about no ancient enemies, he had plenty shooting at him right now.

  The whining ricochet of a bullet suddenly enveloped by the relentless wind brought him back to the present. Cursing, he dove and rolled behind a tipped flour barrel in the wheel-less buckboard wagon. The piano was just a few feet to his left, still playing that sorrowful dirge. Peering around the side brought a few more shots his way. One bullet hit the piano, making the keys off kilter and the sad song all the more twisted.

  Near as Porter could tell; a dozen men were converging on the rocky hillside across from him. He was stuck between them and the river. It was time to get the Hell out of here. Then it got worse.

  Hoss neighed and Porter saw a spindly kid had hold of his reins and was leading him away behind the jagged hillock. There would be no riding out of this mess.

  “Come on out of there, Porter! We’re gonna fill you full of holes sooner or later!” shouted someone, with a hyena’s laugh. It was followed by a cacophony of thundering lead.

  “Give up the damn map!” echoed the gruff voice of another.

  “What map?” Porter challenged. He had no idea what they were talking about, but if he could get them talking more, they’d be distracted and open to his own leaden argument.

  “Don’t play dumb. You got it from Dirty McCurdie didn’t cha?”

  “I did not.” drawled Porter, hoping his relaxed tone would give them confidence to expose themselves. “Let’s talk this out.”

  “He thaid he don’t got it,” whispered another urgently.

  “He do!” argued another. And a cyclone of lead filled the air, all zeroed in on Porter’s general direction.

  Porter figured the main voices were Andy Cotterell; Andy’s brother Wilson, by the sound of his cackle; and the meanest of the bunch, Jed. Porter could tell it was him by his lack of humor and ‘S’s’. Not that it mattered. All three brothers led a gang of cutthroats but were otherwise as different as anything. Jed, the eldest, was stern and humorless with a backward lisp. Wilson, the youngest, would laugh at anything—especially someone else’s pain. Andy, the forgotten middle child, with curly blond locks he was ashamed of, almost looked like a dandy but with a deadly hair-trigger temper. Porter decided he would play upon that temper and vanity if possible. But how had they heard he already had captured Dirty McCurdie? He figured he was a day behind the horse thief. And what was this about a map? Too many questions for getting shot at.

  “What say you boys stop shooting and we talk this out?” Porter shouted, as he reloaded a cylinder.

  “More’n like we’ll see you’s in Hell!” came the slurred retort from one of the gang members. The speaker shot haphazardly in Porter’s direction and laughed.

  It was enough that Porter could tell where the man was hiding behind the rocks. The bandits were clustered together only about fifty feet away in the jumbled hoodoo’s. They had elevation on their side along with superior numbers, but Porter was a crack shot.

  “I’ll oblige you, then,” said Porter, as he shot the speaker in chest.

  The slack-jawed bandido ran a dirty hand along his chest, smearing the river of blood that suddenly poured forth. The wounded man looked stunned, then collapsed. This brought another chaotic volley from his compadres.

  The overturned buckboard Porter took cover behind was rapidly getting chewed to matchsticks by the ravenous barrage of bullets. The dumped supplies were the only things granting cover anymore. Porter mused that there was probably so much lead in that bucket of flour he stood behind that he could sell it to a blacksmith rather than a baker. Much as it pained him, the dead horses were solid cover too, but like everything else they would soon give way to an inevitable tide of decay.

  “You gots nowhere to run, Porter!” cried one of the bandits.

  Porter was grateful for the river behind him and the broken-down wagon in which he was placed; that was the only reason he hadn’t been outflanked or shot yet. But another word for his position could also be “trapped.”

  Porter figured he was outgunned at least twelve to one. His ammunition was low, he had maybe twenty-five rounds on his belt for his Navy Colt and a pocketful of new cylinders. That would be enough to shoot all of them at least twice. No matter the adversity, Porter tried to find a way to laugh.

  Of course, it could’a been a lot easier to laugh if he hadn’t stopped to investigate that haunted sounding player piano in the first place.

  The shooting paused a moment. Porter heard the hushed whispers between the stern older brother, Jed, and the manic Wilson. Their other brother, Andy, was likely as not looking down the end of a barrel just waiting to get a bead on Porter.

  Jed called out, “Hey Porter, we know we ain’t kilt you yet. How about you call it quit and get up. Let look if that legend ‘bout you true once and for all, eh?”

  It’s a hard thing to be a living legend. To be told by a prophet of God that if you never cut your hair no bu
llet nor blade can harm you. True enough, in some twenty-five years since the night that he had received that unusual blessing it had been absolutely correct. Blessed like Samson of old, Porter was promised incredible things and so far, they had proved one hundred percent correct. Porter bore no scars on his rangy body at all. And it wasn’t like he didn’t spend his life in the thick of things, he had been a scout, frontiersman, bodyguard and now lawman all without a single wound as yet. But he still found himself ducking and dodging and fighting his way out of scraps. He didn’t stand around and let himself get hit, no sir. That’d be like tempting fate, and Porter wasn’t about to do that.

  “Come on out, Porter. We ain’t seen any of that underwear magic yet,” taunted Andy Cotterell.

  “What say I stand up if you will, Cornbread,” answered Porter with a pointed jab at Andy’s curly yellow hair.

  The Cotterell gang was close enough that Porter could hear several men laughing as Andy snarled at them to hush. “Sure, you—you cricket cruncher!”

  Porter chuckled. He knew he had gotten a sliver into Andy’s sore thumb. “Cricket cruncher? You cut me to the quick, Andy. Don’t know if I can recover from that verbal thrashing.”

  “Why you long-haired, lily-livered son of a bitch!”

  “Ha! That the best you got? Come on, you buzzards. Let’s make this interesting. How about it? Let’s all stand up and throw down!”

  “All right. We’ll both stand and throw down at the same time! Just you and me!” shouted Andy ignoring that Porter had called them all out.

  “No,” called Porter. He knew damn well it wouldn’t only be Andy or Jed or Wilson. He might as well call them all out on it and have everyone join in and make themselves a target if he could help it. He’d sure try and hit them all. “Not just you and me. Everyone!”

  Andy called back, “All right. We’ll all stand up and face you. On three!”

  “One,” said Porter.

  “Two,” responded Andy.