Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles (5 page)

“It means the four of us will be sold to the captain of an oceangoing ship,” said the unidentified voice. “It's like slavery. We'll be forced to become part of the crew to some foreign port for little or no pay. If we make it back alive, that is.”

“We have to get out of here,” Wes said.

“No way,” said the talkative one. “The trapdoor's locked. The only other way might be that ventilator grating, but it's secured with heavy screws. I bloodied my fingers tryin' to pry it loose.”

The grating was steel mesh, about two feet square. It opened to the outside, and there were sounds of voices from a saloon next door.

“I have a knife in my boot,” Wes said. “Maybe I can loosen those screws.”

Wes withdrew the hidden knife. It was blade-heavy for throwing, leaving the haft thin enough to fit into the screw heads, and he set to work on the grating.

“Them screws has likely never been took out of there,” said the man who had kicked over the roulette wheel. “They might be rusted.”

“You'd better hope not,” Wes said grimly.

One of the screws broke loose, then a second, and finally a third. Wes seized the heavy grating and twisted it, wrenching the fourth screw loose.

“God be praised,” said one of the unidentified captives. “We're free.”

“My pard and I go first,” Wes said.

There were several tables and chairs, all with one or more legs missing. Wes took one of the chairs with a rear leg gone and placed it back to the wall. It slipped from beneath him, but not until he had head and shoulders free. He wriggled out into the cool October night. El Lobo quickly followed. The remaining two captives escaped and immediately were lost in the darkness.

“What we do?” El Lobo asked. “They take our guns.”

“We take ‘em back,” said Wes. “Those Colts belonged to my father, and I don't aim to leave without them. Not if I have to level this place one brick and one board at a time. Come on.”

They had emerged in an alley behind the saloon. Reaching the front, keeping out of the light, they could see the interior of the saloon. Half a dozen men sat at various tables, nursing a bottle, there was a different bartender, and none of the burly bouncers were in sight. Boldly Wes and El Lobo entered, approaching the bar.

“What'll you have, gents?” the bartender asked.

“What belongs to us,” Wes said, seizing the startled bartender by his shirtfront.

“Holdup!” the bartender squawked before his wind was cut off.

Suddenly a door burst open and the four bouncers appeared. But El Lobo had vaulted across the bar and had found their gunbelts beneath it. Quickly he tossed Wes his gunbelt, and drawing one of the Colts, he faced the four men.

“That's far enough,” said Wes. “I can drop all of you before you can get to me. This is no holdup. We're taking the weapons you took from us.”

El Lobo had reached the door, and drawing one of his Colts, held the four at bay until Wes joined him.

“Don't get any ideas about following us,” Wes said. “We owe you, and you won't like the way we pay our debts.”

Quickly Wes and El Lobo backed into the covering darkness and were gone.

After the destruction of the Sandlin gang in Mexico, certain men had escaped across the border, taking positions within the Dragon empire in the United States. One of these men was Rance Stringfield, along with his lieutenant, Turk Corbin. They had established an office in a rundown warehouse near the waterfront, and from there it had been Stringfield who had dispatched the two gunmen to ambush Wes and El Lobo aboard the steamboat. Corbin had just come from the telegraph office, and the message he brought didn't please Stringfield.

“Damn it,” Stringfield growled, “I tried to tell them two men couldn't do the job. Not after what this pair of
pistoleros
did to us in Mexico.”

“The gunmen you sent after them wasn't exactly wooly lambs,” said Corbin. “They had reputations as killers.”

“Reputation means nothing,” Stringfield said. “It's results that count. Use the code and wire our contact in New Orleans. I want these
El Diablo Pistolas
dead. None of us are safe as long as they're alive.”

“I can agree with that,” said Corbin. “It seems they had some kind of grudge against us in Mexico, but why are they after us north of the border?”

“The government has contacted them,” Stringfield said. “I received word from one of our people in Washington that some sort of meeting was taking place here. But I was unable to get any details until it was over. I had no idea we were dealing with the pair of young hellions that ran us out of Mexico, until the day they left for New Orleans. Then I had to choose some gunmen in a hurry. Poor choice on my part.”

“What do I tell New Orleans?” Corbin asked.

“Tell them this pair must be done away with,” said Stringfield. “The Anglo travels with a dog, and his companion is an Indian. Use as many men as it takes, and if they leave New Orleans, they are to be pursued and eliminated.”

“Why do you suppose they went to New Orleans?” Corbin asked.

“One of the more vulnerable mints is there,” said Stringfield, “and it's a port city. The Treasury knows what's happening, but they haven't been able to break our security. That's what these young gunmen have been enlisted to do, and they've been sent to the nearest trouble spot. Now send that telegram.”

 

After freeing themselves and taking their weapons, Wes and El Lobo started back to their boardinghouse. Wes had left Empty at the livery with their horses, and they went there first.

“The
perro
no like saloons,” said El Lobo. “He smarter than us.”

“I can't argue with that,” Wes said. “I can't see that we accomplished anything, except gettin' ourselves all skinned up.”

They reached the boardinghouse without seeing anyone. Their room was in the back of the house, with an outside entrance, and they entered quietly. Empty took his place beneath the window, and while El Lobo lighted the lamp, Wes locked and bolted the door. He then unbuckled his gunbelt, removed his hat, and sat down on the bed. Suddenly Empty was on his feet, growling deep in his throat. El Lobo had already drawn and cocked one of his Colts and stood aside from the window, waiting. Wes remained where he was, lest his movement be noticed. The window blind had been drawn, and while they could see nothing, their shadows could be seen from outside. Neither man moved until Empty relaxed and lay down beneath the window.

“Somebody look for us,” said El Lobo.

“We'll have to be careful when we leave here tomorrow,” Wes said. “I reckon by now they know the ambush on the steamboat fell through, but I don't see how they got after us so soon.”

“Per‘ap they have men here,” said El Lobo.

“That's possible,” Wes said. “From what Silver told us, this town could be crawling with gunmen just waiting for us. After that beating we took in the saloon, and after our escape, we may not be strangers here anymore. I reckon it's time we had a look at that double eagle I got from the saloon.”

Wes removed the coin from his shirt pocket and with his knife began scraping the surface. Slowly the gold disappeared, exposing base metal.

“Malo,”
said El Lobo.

“Yes,” Wes agreed, “but about what we expected. All we've done is prove the truth of what Silver told us. Owners of saloons and gambling houses are just pawns, and there's no way we can get to the Golden Dragon through them, unless we can find somebody who is willing to talk.”

“They be afraid,” said El Lobo.

“They have every reason to be,” Wes said. “Besides, what do they have to lose? Their payouts are in counterfeit, while the coin they take in is genuine. Even if the house take is only twenty percent, it's all profit.”

“What we do now?” El Lobo asked.

“Probably the worst thing we could do,” said Wes. “Silver gave us the names of directors of the three mints in question. Here in New Orleans, it's Oliver Reed, and we know where he lives. Tomorrow being Sunday, I think we'll call on Reed and find out where he stands, if we can. It won't be easy, since we can't identify ourselves as agents for the Treasury. If he's honest, he may think we're part of the Dragon's outfit.”

 

Wes and El Lobo rode for several miles through a New Orleans residential district before finding the small house where Oliver Reed lived. They looped the reins of their horses through a picket fence and made their way to the front door. Their knock was answered by an elderly lady with graying hair. She eyed them curiously, but when her eyes reached their guns, her face went white and she slammed the door.

“Go away,” she cried. “Leave us alone.”

“Ma‘am,” said Wes, “we mean you no harm. We only want to speak with Mr. Reed.”

“Martha,” a voice from inside said, “I'll talk to them.”

The door opened and Reed, a heavyset man in spectacles, stood there. He spoke.

“Who are you, and what do you want of me?”

“It's best you don't know who we are, or where we're from,” Wes said. “What you don't know, you can't tell. Does this mean anything to you?”

Wes extended his hand, and in the palm lay one of the Golden Dragon coins.

“I've told you before,” said Reed angrily, “I want no part of your illegal schemes.”

He started to slam the door, but Wes had his foot in it.

“It's good to hear you say that, sir,” Wes said. “I told you we mean you no harm, and while we can't identify ourselves, we're on your side. We must find a member of the gang who can be made to talk.”

“I know nothing about them,” Reed said shakily, “and I don't want to know. They've talked to me ... threatened me ... three times, and I ...”

Suddenly the angry bark of a rifle broke the Sunday morning stillness. Narrowly missing Wes, a slug ripped into the door just inches from Reed's head. Wes drove his shoulder into the door and Reed stumbled backward, allowing Wes and El Lobo into the house. El Lobo kicked the door shut just as more slugs slammed into it. A second rifle had opened up, but by the time Wes and El Lobo reached a front window with drawn Colts, the firing had ceased.

“Now are you convinced we're not part of the gang?” Wes asked.

“I ... I suppose so,” said Reed, struggling to his feet.

Martha Reed sat on a sofa, her face buried in her hands, but not for long. Suddenly she was on her feet, and El Lobo being the closest, flung herself at him.

“Damn you,” she cried. “Damn both of you for coming here. Next time, they'll murder us.”

It was Oliver Reed who restrained the frantic woman.

“Martha,” said Reed, “they weren't shooting at us.”

“No,” Wes said, “because you're no danger to them. They're after us, and you've told us where you stand, so we won't bother you again. But we do need to ask you a question about the mint here in New Orleans.”

“Ask then,” said Reed. “Perhaps I'll answer and perhaps I won't. It depends entirely on the question: ‘

“You have two men—DeShazo and Morgan—who are in charge of security, and these men see to getting the newly minted coins to various banks,” Wes said. “How far can you trust these men? Would either or both of them sell out, if the reward was great enough?”

“I ... I don't know,” said Reed. “They're family men, with responsible positions, and I've no reason not to trust them. So I can't answer your question. Now will you please go?”

“We'll go,” Wes said, “and do an investigation of our own. Sorry that we had to bust in with them shooting at us, but there was no cover.”

El Lobo eased the door open a little, then closed it.

“There be
hombres
watching,” said El Lobo.

“Likely the neighbors,” Wes said. “Reed?”

Ignoring the frantic cries of his wife, Oliver Reed opened the door.

“It's the neighbors,” said Reed. “Nobody else.”

Without a word, Wes stepped out the door, El Lobo following. Empty was barking at the half-dozen curious men who stood across the street. Ignoring them, Wes and El Lobo mounted their horses and rode away. Empty followed, satisfied they were leaving the strangers behind. Before they reached the livery, Wes reined up. El Lobo looked at him questioningly.

“Something about the Reeds is bothering me,” said Wes. “I think we'll pay a visit to Morgan and DeShazo. Morgan first, because he's closest.”

 

“Do you think they believed us?” Martha Reed asked after Wes and El Lobo had gone.

“I don't know,” said Reed. “You were convincing enough, but I'd better warn Morgan and DeShazo. I think we'd be wise to hold up any further distribution until these young troublemakers are out of the way.”

“They'd be out of the way now,” Martha said shortly, “if you hadn't allowed them to shove their way in.”

Reed said nothing. Taking his hat, he left by the kitchen door and went to the stable. Quickly he harnessed his team to a buckboard and drove away.

 

Wes and El Lobo found the Morgan house near a small church, and behind the meeting house was a cemetery. Sunday services were over, and a high hedge between church property and the Morgan house provided cover. Wes and El Lobo dismounted, taking up positions behind the hedge.

“What we look for?” El Lobo asked.

“We're looking for Oliver Reed,” said Wes, “and here he comes.”