Black Hills (9781101559116) (20 page)

Cormac was wary as they neared the suspiciously deep, possibly intentionally made rut where the man had been walking high above. Cactus regripped the reins in preparation for slowing down. Cormac saw something move higher on the mountain and yelled at him, “Let 'em hear the whip, straddle the rut, and take 'em through on hell!” Cactus reacted unquestioningly.

“Hiyah!” he yelled, and slapped the horses' rumps with the reins with one hand while he pulled the whip from its bracket with the other, cracking it over their heads. The stage leaped forward as a rifle shot echoed from the mountain and a bullet ricocheted off the metal handrail behind Cormac. Holding the scattergun with his left hand, he pulled it down by his side with the butt back against the stage behind him and his Smith & Wesson in his right hand as four riders with kerchiefs over their faces burst out of the bushes in front of them, their hands full of guns.

Cactus had the stage already into the middle of them, and their attempt to block the road failed; they were forced to split apart with one on the left and three on the right side. Cormac cross-fired, hitting the single on the left center chest with his right-hand pistol, and taking out two on the right when he pulled both triggers of the shotgun at the same time, firing with his left hand.

The remaining rider on the right got off one shot, which missed, before Cormac swung his right-hand pistol back to put an end to that holdup business. The holdup man's body jerked twice from Cormac's three shots before falling backward from the out-of-control horse rearing wildly.

Cactus kept the horses all-out, bumps be damned, for at least a mile, finally slowing to a trot, a walk, and then to a stop when they come to an open space from which it was easy to see there were no outlaws around. “By thee Gods, man! That was some shootin'. Where'd a farm boy learn to shoot like that?”

Cormac shrugged. “I dunno,” he said as he reloaded. “I just did what had ta be done.”

“I'd like to shake your hand,” said the undertaker-like passenger stepping down from the stage with his hand out when they stopped later at Cactus' normal resting place for a bush break and to ease the horses. “What's your name, boy?”

“Mack Lynch, sir,” he said, accepting the handshake from him and others, all of whom were standing in a group. “From Dakota Territory.”

“Well, Mr. Mack Lynch, I thank you. That could have been real bad.” In the excitement, no one had noticed another holdup man stepping out of the shrubbery with his gun pointed at Cormac. He was calm, obviously experienced, and fully expectant of cooperation.

“If everyone stands real still and puts their hands in the air, no one is going to get hurt.”

“Oh for Pete's sake,” said Cormac. The girl, standing beside him still trying to make eyes at him, fainted, and Cormac, remembering the man shooting Mr. Ferguson although his hands were up, palmed his freshly re-loaded Smith & Wesson and put two bullets into the middle of the holdup man's chest.

Looking down at him, Cactus shook his head. “I don't understand. I been held up before, but it's unusual for this many to be involved. Usually, it's just some cowboy with an empty poke that wants to celebrate a little, or take a girl upstairs, and they don't really want to hurt anybody, but these guys were dead serious. That rifle shot was meant to put you in the ground, boy!” The other male passenger, an affable man of confident strength and stature, studying him with analytic eyes, shook his hand in silence.

“If you keep walkin' in rattlesnake country you're gonna get bit,” Cormac told the Butterfield manager when they returned to Denver. “I figure if I keep ridin' shotgun, I'm gonna get dead. That rifle bullet was aimed at me, and I can only thank God it missed; the next one might not. I'm not gonna push my luck for no amount of money. I can't spend it if I'm dead, so thanks, but no thanks. You're gonna have to find somebody else.”

Cormac went back to the Trailhead to see if Patch knew of any other jobs available. Cactus was already there and telling everybody within earshot of Cormac's prowess with his guns. He was still wearing both with the thongs off.

When he bellied up to the bar, Patch brought him a beer without being asked. “You made a name for yourself today, boy.”

“A name for himself? That pip-squeaked hick from the sticks? He couldn't draw a deuce in a stacked deck, let alone draw them guns a his.” The tough guy who had been staring at him the day before was back with one of his friends. Other patrons quickly slid out of the way.

“Look at him, with two guns and farmer-boy bib overalls, acting like he's so tough. Hell, he's still a wet-behind-the-ears kid. He don't know what tough is. Hell, down Texas way, we swat the likes of him like flies. For two bits, I'd take him apart.”

His friend threw a quarter on the bar. “He ain't dry behind the ears yet, but the kid looks to me like he's got sand, and I think that would take some doin'. There's your two bits; I think I'd like to see that.”

“You guys got something stuck in your craw or what?” asked Cormac. “Fun's fun, but I just came in here to talk to Patch and have a beer. Now why don't you guys just leave me alone, and we'll forget all this nonsense.”

With a ten-gallon hat on his head, a red kerchief around his thick neck, a plain red shirt and brown vest over blue jeans with brand-new boots, the tough guy was a typical-looking cowboy who had had too much good food. His face was round and flabby, and when he stepped away from the bar, his belly hung well over his belt, but it wasn't all flab. He moved well.

He swaggered over to Cormac. “Come on, farm boy, just'cause you're big, don't mean you're tough. Come get your lickin'.”

Cormac easily ducked a roundhouse left but stepped into a wicked right hook that had him seeing stars. Groggy, he fell back against the bar. “How's that, boy? Come on. We ain't done here.”

Cormac wasn't going to let that happen again and walked in on him swinging only to get caught by a straight jab to his nose that started a river of blood gushing down. He managed to duck the next one and landed a stiff uppercut to the chin that knocked the cowboy on his backend.

Backing up, Cormac gave him time to regain his feet as he had been taught, and they came together again, both a little wiser. Cormac dodged a left hook and took a powerful right to his midriff that doubled him over. The cowboy clubbed down on the back of his head with his two fists held together, and Cormac went to his knees.

Before he could regain his feet, the cowboy kicked him once in the stomach, missed a kick to the head, and landed one on the hip, knocking him to the floor. They both hurt like the devil.
Prize fighting is another job I don't want
, he thought, pulling back from the next kick and rolling to his feet, right-stepping away from a powerhouse right to grab it as he had his attacker in Omaha. It worked the same way. Cormac grabbed the arm and pulled hard with the swing, using the cowboy's weight as leverage to pull him off his feet and slam him head first into the bar. That took the fight out of him, and he crumbled into a heap on the floor.

“Can I use one of your wet towels to wipe this blood off me?” Cormac asked Patch. The blood was all down his front and soaked into his shirt and overalls. It was going to take more than a wet towel to clean it up. He would take care of it later. He used the towel on his face.

“Back to our conversation, do you know anyone else needin' help around here Patch?”

“Only a feed store, but I don't think you'd like standing around in a store all day, waiting on people. But I can ask around.”

Cormac ordered another beer and went to use the outhouse. There was paper on the floor, and the seat was wet. Swell. Men are slobs. His pa woulda talked to him loudly about leaving their toilet in that condition for the women. Returning to the beer waiting for him, Cormac looked into the mirror to see the two cowboys at a table, drinking whiskey and glaring at him. Sweller. It would be better if he just left before there was more trouble.

Patch promised he would ask around about a job for him and Cormac turned to leave.

“What's the matter, farm boy? You gotta run home to mommy?” Cormac ignored him and kept walking.

“Hey! Farmer boy! I think you're a damn yellow-bellied coward.”

Cormac turned to see the loud mouth standing in front of his table, his legs spread and his hand over his gun. “Okay loud mouth, you win. You've been trying to get my goat, and you've succeeded. You can find out right now if I know how to use these toys of mine, if you want. If this is the hill you want to die on, pull your gun, if you're that damned stupid. But if you do, I'm gonna kill ya.”

The loud mouth was just that stupid. He batted his eyes a couple times and realized he had misjudged the kid altogether. But he had made his brag and couldn't back down now. He went for his gun. Cormac waited while his hand gripped his gun and pulled it out of his holster so all could see that Cormac had not drawn first, and then shot him dead center with one bullet. There were plenty of witnesses to vouch that it was a fair shoot. In the telling of it later, it was said that no one had actually seen his hand move. The gun was just suddenly in his hand . . . and the legend grew.

“Thanks for your help, Patch. I guess I better move on. I don't want anymore of this.”

“You never told me your name.”

“Mack Lynch, from Dakota Territory. Thanks for your help. Will you tell your law what happened, please, so it doesn't get distorted?”

“Sure. Good luck wherever you end up, but that draw of yours is the damndest thing I ever seen, or never seen. I was watching you and wondering why you weren't going for your gun, then all the sudden it was in your hand. I never saw the likes of that, and in this saloon, I've seen plenty. I think, my young friend, you're going to find that fast draw to be a blessing and a curse all wrapped up in one package.”

Since spring had arrived to start melting the snow, traveling would be getting easier. Maybe he would go see what was so all-fired special about the Texas that everyone went to see when they left after putting up their GTT sign that was always left behind tacked to their door. GTT: GONE TO TEXAS.

N
ot wanting to draw any more attention, he bought himself some jeans and western boots that the clerk explained had high heels to keep his feet from slipping through the stirrups, getting hung up and helping to get him drug to death. He was on his way to get Lop Ear and Horse when he was stopped by a gravely, down-in-the-cellar voice, with a face to match.

“Excuse me, young man. I would like to speak with you, if I may.” Elderly, with the rough-textured, weather-beaten skin of many hours in the saddle, he spoke with certainty and toughness he felt no need to demonstrate. He knew who he was and didn't give a hang if anyone else did or not. Cormac recognized him as having been on the stage returning from Boulder.

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Ah, manners. I like that. Your parents raised you well. I was on the stage today.”

“Yes, sir. I remember you. I noticed your gun out in case I needed help. I thank you for that.”

“You did a good job out there today.”

“I'd rather not have had to; it was a surprise. We weren't expecting to have any trouble. We weren't carrying any money or gold.”

“That was my fault, I'm afraid. I was carrying $30,000. I was just picking up the money for a herd of cattle I sold last month and wanted to get it to the First National Bank. I've heard they have a very strong safe.”

“You're right about that. It's nearly as big as a house. They showed me the inside. I don't see how anyone could break into that thing; it's massive. Everyone is waiting for someone to try to rob it just to see how strong it really is.”

“Well, you're right, it certainly looks strong, but if they let you see the inside, that means you have some money in there, too. They wouldn't have let you see it otherwise. That makes you different than most young men your age, if you're saving your money instead of drinking and girlin' till it's gone.”

“Well,” he went on, “my money is their problem now, and I have a banknote instead of cash, thanks to you. I understand you quit your job when you got back in town, but you obviously weren't afraid. I think that shows a lot of common sense. I stopped you to offer you a job. I got a spread up in Montana just outside of Virginia City called the Flying H where I run a little beef, and I could use a good man.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don't know anything about cattle, and I won't hire out my gun. But thanks anyway.” Cormac turned to leave.

“Wait. I don't want to hire your gun. Oh, I can't guarantee that you might not have to use it sometime, but it's not why I am offering you a job. I already have about twenty riders, but good help is hard to find. I can pay twenty-five a month and found. The bunkhouse is clean, you'll love our cook, and Montana's got the biggest, bluest skies you'll ever see. Whadaya say?”

He held out his hand. Cormac hesitated and then took it. “I been wantin' to see Montana anyway, and I guess it's another chance like this I'll not be gettin'.”

Cormac's new boss looked at him more thoughtfully. “That sounded a mite Irish. Is one of your parents Irish?”

“No, sir,” Cormac answered, a little surprised himself. “I used to have an Irish friend that would sometimes lay the Irish on thick for the fun of it or to tease me. I guess some of it stuck to me.” Then, to change the subject, “I don't even know your name, sir. I'm Mack Lynch, from Dakota Territory.”

Cormac's new boss was J. B. Haplander, from Texas by way of Montana. They settled their arrangements and agreed that Cormac would meet him at the ranch in a few days.