Silver City Massacre (5 page)

“Damn, Ansil, what's that awful stink? I swear, I never noticed it till just a couple of minutes ago. Smells like a dead rat run into the place. You smell it?”

He made sure his voice was loud enough for everyone in the saloon to hear. The room went suddenly quiet, as the conversation among the few patrons ceased and all eyes were drawn to the stocky gray-haired man in the weathered uniform.

The implication was not lost on Riley. He looked over at Lige, who was grinning contemptuously. It was not necessary to spend much thought on the purpose of the man's comments. Riley had seen more than a few troublemakers like Lige in more saloons than he could remember. He decided to ignore the comment and see if nothing more came of it. Lige, however, was not content to let it go without some reaction from the stranger.

“You can smell it now, can't you, Ansil? It's worse than a skunk, I swear.”

It was obvious to Riley that his antagonist was going to keep at it until he got some response from him. He knew that he could simply turn tail and slink out the door, which was probably what the bully expected, but it was not his nature to do so. Tapping his empty glass on the bar, he nodded to Bowers and said, “I think I'll have another little snort.” Then he turned his attention to Lige and, with a knowing smile on his face, commented, “Couldn't help hearin' what you said about the smell in here. I think I caught a little hint of that stink when I walked in. And now that you mention it, you're right. It got a helluva lot stronger when you walked closer to the bar.”

The leering smile instantly disappeared from Lige's face. “Why, you old son of a bitch, you came to the wrong place to pick a fight. We don't allow no Rebel trash in here, do we, Ansil?” Ansil responded with no more than a shrug. “So now I'm tellin' you to get your worthless ass outta here before I throw you out.”

Unfazed, Riley remained at the bar, ignoring the bully, who had now taken a couple of steps away from the bar, preparing to follow up on his threat if Riley refused to leave. The crusty old sergeant refused to meet his gaze, looking at Bowers instead. “I'll have that other drink now, if you please,” he told him.

“You'll have what!” Lige exploded, scarcely able to believe the old man's gall. “I'll show you what you'll have!” He had taken only a step toward Riley when he heard the sound of a rifle cocking. As all eyes had been trained on the confrontation at the bar, no one had noticed the lone figure standing in the saloon door.

“He said he'll have another drink,” Joel said, his tone calm, but firm, as he stood there with his carbine held casually before him.

“You're makin' a helluva mistake, mister,” Ansil Bowers finally spoke up. “I ain't gotta serve none of you Rebel trash.”

“You're gonna serve this one,” Joel told him, “and the sooner you get on with it, the sooner we'll be gone.”

Emboldened by Lige Tolbert's presence, Bowers replied, “The hell I will.” In the next instant, he suddenly jerked backward, startled by the sharp crack of the carbine and the crash of broken glass as the lamp behind the bar was shattered. It was followed at once by the sound of another cartridge inserted in the chamber and, a moment later, by the gasps of the startled bystanders.

Joel motioned with the Spencer and said, “Pour him his drink, and be quick about it. I'm losin' my patience.”

He did not discount the probability that the shot had been heard by a sheriff, or marshal, whoever represented the law in town. Bowers did not move, so Joel pulled the carbine up and aimed it at the large mirror behind the bar.

“Wait! Hold on!” Bowers screamed. “I'm goin'!” He moved at once to fetch the bottle.

Thinking the confusion had distracted Joel's attention from him, Lige dropped his hand on the .44 he carried, but thought better of it when Joel said, “That would be your last mistake today.”

The barroom was gripped in stony silence as Bowers poured whiskey in Riley's glass, his hand shaking so with rage that he spilled a good portion on the bar. He set the bottle down and took a step to his right. Motioning with the weapon again, Joel waved him back toward the end of the bar, thinking that Bowers might have tried to position himself where he kept a shotgun behind the counter. The consternation on Bowers's face tended to convince Joel he had been right.

“Let's hurry it along, Riley,” he said. “I'm beginnin' to get a feelin' we ain't really welcome here.”

“Don't you want one?” Riley replied, seeming to be in no particular hurry.

“I kinda lost the mood right now. Tell you what, take the bottle. Pay the man, so he won't be out any money, and we'll be on our way.”

Riley tossed his drink back, grabbed the bottle, and backed toward the door, one hand resting on the pistol he wore. “Gimme a minute,” he said, “and I'll untie the horses.”

Joel continued to back carefully toward the door after him, alert to any motion from any quarter. “You're lucky to get outta here alive, mister,” Bowers fumed.

Emboldened by Joel's retreat, Lige took a step toward him, and when Joel didn't seem to react, he took another. This was the moment when postmaster Sam Ingram, craving a drink, walked into the saloon, completely unaware of the tense situation inside. Surprised, Joel had to step quickly aside to keep from being bumped into by the equally surprised postmaster. Lige saw the confusion as his opportunity to act and charged Joel, drawing his pistol as he ran. His mistake was in misjudging the reflexive actions of the man holding the carbine, and his .44 barely cleared the holster when the butt of the Spencer slammed against his nose and dropped him like a stone on the barroom floor.

Joel watched him for a few seconds, but when Lige didn't move, he kicked the dropped pistol away from his hand and continued to back slowly out of the saloon. In the doorway, he stopped to give one last warning.

“So far, nobody's had to die over this, but know one thing for certain I will shoot the first man I see come out this door. That, I promise you.”

He paused a second longer to make sure everyone understood him before suddenly stepping outside, where Riley was waiting in the saddle, holding the chestnut's reins. Joel ran to jump into the stirrup and they were off before he swung his other leg over, thundering off down the street toward the north end of town.

Behind them, the cloud of silence that had gripped the saloon during the tense moments before suddenly erupted into a noisy kettle of excited conversation.

“Who the hell was that?” Sam Ingram asked as Bowers and the man Lige had been playing cards with knelt down beside the injured man. No one bothered to answer him, curious as they were to see how badly Lige had been hurt. They rolled him over, causing him to groan in pain, his face covered with blood.

“Well, he ain't dead,” Bowers stated, “but damned if his nose ain't spread all over his face.” He sent a boy who worked in the saloon to the pump to get a pan of water and a washcloth. “Maybe we can clean you up a little,” he said to Lige, whose brain was still rattled and who was not sure what had happened. When the boy returned with the pan of water, Bowers sent him to get the doctor. “Better tell the sheriff while you're at it,” Bowers called after him. “I don't know why he ain't here already. He musta heard that gunshot.”

Gradually, Lige came around. As he gained consciousness, he realized the pain even more as it had come to grip his whole head like a vise. He winced with each gentle stroke of Bowers's washcloth, unable to breathe without gasping for air through his mouth. When his head was clear enough to remember, he murmured painfully, “He's a dead man. He'll pay up for this.”

“Maybe you'd better just forget about it,” Bowers said. “He's already long gone, and you don't look like you'll be in shape to ride anytime soon.”

“We'll see about that,” Lige grunted, pushed Bowers's hand away, and struggled to get to his feet, only to stagger over to a chair to sit down and wait for the doctor.

Bowers gave his flattened nose a long look before making a sarcastic comment. “I don't reckon you'll notice the stink if he comes in here again,” referring to Lige's original remarks that had caused the altercation. Lige was about to retort when Doc Calley walked in.

“I thought your boy said he was shot,” Doc remarked to Bowers as he went over to examine the injured man. His tone was almost one of disappointment. There were many in town who considered Lige Tolbert a bully the town would be better off without.

“I think it's broke,” Lige said.

“I think you're right,” Doc replied sarcastically as he tilted Lige's head back and peered at the results of Joel's rifle butt. “He damn sure flattened it.” He continued to study it for a few minutes, then told him there was very little he could do to fix it. “I can push some of the bone back to where it was, but you're gonna have a flat nose from now on. I'll try to fix it so you can breathe a little easier through it.”

“Just be quick about it,” Lige said. “I've gotta ride.”

“I don't expect you'll feel much like riding by the time I'm through,” Doc told him. “You've already got a lot of swelling starting up and pretty soon your eyes are gonna puff up like toadstools. But I'll do what I can.”

“Hurry up, Doc. I ain't got time to sit around here all day,” Lige said, with as much bluster as he could manage through his aching head. He had a reputation as a bully that he was forced to defend, and he was already aware of the look of amusement in the faces of some of the spectators. “Tommy,” he said to Bowers's boy, “go down to the stable and tell Buck to saddle my horse. I'm goin' huntin' for a damn Rebel.”

“All right,” Doc sighed patiently, and went to work on him. “But my advice is to take it easy and let it heal.” He turned to see Sheriff Jack Suggs coming in the door.

“Took you long enough,” Lige complained.

Suggs was another man Lige didn't get along with. He was only the acting sheriff, until the elected sheriff came back from Cheyenne, but Lige was still sore over the town's decision to give Suggs the job instead of him.

“I was eatin' my dinner,” Suggs said. “Who got shot?”

“Ansil's carnival glass lamp,” one of the spectators replied with a chuckle.

Suggs turned to him and asked what had happened, and listened while he watched Doc work on Lige's face. When he had heard what the man had to say about the altercation, and his story was confirmed by the head nodding and agreeing grunts from the other witnesses, Suggs shook his head impatiently at Lige.

“Sounds to me like you stuck that nose into somethin' that it'da been best kept out of. He flattened the hell out of it, all right.”

Already tired of hearing how flat his nose now was, Lige demanded, “Ain't you goin' after him? He cut loose with a damn carbine in here.”

“No, I ain't,” Suggs said. “From what I hear, it warn't nothin' but a barroom brawl and you come out on the bottom. And I ain't got time to chase after somebody in a bar fight.” Finished with the issue then, he turned to Bowers. “Might as well pour me a drink, long as I'm here.” He walked back to the bar, leaving Lige to seethe, well aware of the injured man's hatred for him, but smug in his thinking that Lige was helpless to do anything about it. When Bowers poured his drink, Suggs asked, “Who started this thing, Ansil?”

Bowers shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “Lige,” he answered. “He was rawhidin' a friend of that feller. They were both wearin' Confederate uniforms.”

“That's what I figured,” Suggs said, and tossed his drink back. Satisfied that he had an accurate account of the disturbance, he felt there was nothing he should do about it. “Well, I'll get on back to the office,” he said, cast one more quick glance in Lige's direction, then walked out.

“Nobody gets away with this,” Lige grumbled. “I'll get that son of a bitch.”

“Hold still,” Doc told him, “or you're gonna have this bandage wrapped around your neck.”

Lige held still, but he was thinking that Doc could show him a little more respect.

Maybe after I track those Rebels down, I might come back and take some of that sass out of you,
he thought.

As his mind cleared, he became more inflamed with the desire for vengeance. To add a little incentive to his desire to catch up with the two Rebels, he remembered then that someone who saw the two men leave town said they were leading four horses, two of them with packs. “I can track as good as any Injun,” he boasted. “I'll find those bastards.”

“I hope you do,” Doc said. “I hope you do. Make us all proud of you.” The sarcasm was lost on the simple being who was Lige Tolbert. It only confused him.

•   •   •

Approximately twelve miles north of Denver City, Joel and Riley sat by a fire on the bank of a small stream. Unaware that the man bent on tracking them was already in the saddle, even with his face swollen from injury, they were drinking coffee made from the beans they had purchased in Guthrie's store. Joel had taken his drink of whiskey before changing to coffee, primarily because Riley insisted upon it.

“Weren't fair that you didn't get the chance to have a drink back there in the saloon,” he said.

Not sure whether there would be anybody coming after them for the disturbance in the saloon, they had taken precautions to hide their trail. Their path had led them to a river not more than a mile from town, but the water seemed too deep to ride in for any distance upstream or down. So they crossed over and continued on until reaching a wide stream that just served the purpose. Entering the water, they rode upstream, closer to the mountains, for about half a mile before leaving it to head due north again. Feeling it a good bet that they would have lost anyone thinking of tailing them, they relaxed to enjoy the coffee.