The Indian Ring (4 page)

Oink looked at Texas Tom and said, “Don't say nothin' else!”

Texas Tom said, “Yer crazy! Strongheart, if I spill the beans, can ya make sure the judge takes it easy on me?”

Oink said, “Ya better not say one more word.”

Strongheart pulled his Peacemaker out and held it like a hammer saying, “That is good advice. Want a long nap?”

Oink sulked.

Texas Tom said, “We got hired ta follow ya and kill ya by a powerful feller who works fer a really big government feller. We ain't the only ones hired, neither. The word is out: Kill Strongheart.”

Strongheart started downing his breakfast and coffee. Listening and thinking.

Joshua said, “This man that hired you. He have a name?”

Oink just glared at Texas Tom and growled.

Texas Tom said, “Yes, sir. His name is Robert M. Hartwell. Tiny man but important. Got lots a money. Gambles a lot and likes him the women.”

Oink said, “Now ya done it, ya idjit. We're dead fer sure now.”

Ignoring Oink, Joshua said, “How do you know he's powerful?”

Texas Tom said, “He works fer the durned government. Clothes show it, too. Expensive clothes, and he always has gun hands around him.”

Giving in to their fate now, Oink joined in. “He's a really tiny feller, but jest the way people treat him ya can tell he's powerful.”

“He rides him a big old black Thoroughbred,” added Texas Tom.

This news hit Joshua square between the eyes. He had seen this Thoroughbred back in Denver, but the bartender in the saloon had lied to him about the owner, identifying a Mexican in the corner as the owner.

RETURN TO DENVER

Three days later, Lucky and two other Pinkertons met Strongheart back in Denver. Oink and Texas Tom were being held in jail.

Lucky rode a livery stable horse, as the pair rode to the saloon where Strongheart had been given the wrong information. They went inside and the same saloon keeper was there. Joshua walked up to him, reached across the bar, and grabbed him by his lapel, dragging the two hundred pounder across the bar with one hand and a lot of adrenaline pumping. He stood the man up and slapped him across the face.

Strongheart said quietly through clenched teeth, “You told me the correct name of the big black Thoroughbred a few days back but lied about the owner. How much is he paying you?”

The bartender looked nervously from side to side and whispered, “Can we go outside and talk?”

The other bartender had both hands below at the back of the bar and Strongheart drew his pistol in a blur, saying, “Get your hands off that scattergun, mister, if you value your life.”

The bartender said, “It's okay, Slim. I'm taking a break for a few.”

The man's hands came up on the bar, and he shook his head while Joshua marched the man outside with Lucky following.

“What's your name?” Strongheart asked.

“Luck,” the man replied.

Joshua replied, “Well, we will change it to Hard Luck if you do not answer my questions. How much is he paying you?”

“Nothing, mister,” Luck said. “He was upstairs that night with one of the women, and two or maybe three of his gang or whatever you call them were right there within earshot. I didn't wanna get killed.”

Strongheart let go of his lapel and said, “Keep talking.”

Luck went on, “His name is Robert Hartwell, and he worked with William Belknap, the secretary of war. I think he was one of his top men.”

Luck continued enthusiastically, “He always has bodyguards around him, and they are all gun slicks. Last year, one of our regulars was killed. He had a freighting outfit with a government contract. He used to carry supplies out of Denver to Injun agencies up north, down south toward Fort Union, and out east. He told me he didn't go west outta Denver cause of the mountains. Anyway, he had a load of blankets, which he swapped for some cheaper ones. I heard him making the deal in the saloon. When I say load, I mean a couple warehouses full, not just one wagonload.”

Lucky said, “What happened then?”

“After he and the feller he was dealing with shook hands, he turned to me and asked me how much I heard,” the bartender said. “I should have said ‘Nothing,' but I was loco I guess and told him ‘All of it.' Can we go somewhere and
talk private? I don't want to get seen talking to you, Mr. Strongheart.”

Joshua said, “Sure, you have a back room?”

Luck said, “Yeah, the poker room is empty tonight. Let's go back there.”

The men made their way through the smoky saloon, sitting down at a large felt-topped poker table in the back room.

Luck went on, “He had two of his gun hands with him, and nodded at them. They grabbed my arms and put my hands on the bar. Then, all of a sudden—have you ever seen one of those push-button knives?”

Joshua said, “I carry one.”

Luck went on. “Well, this little feller pulled one out of his pocket, clicked it open, and come down stabbing my left hand, and pinned it to the bar. Did I ever start yelping. Look at my hand.”

He put his left hand out setting it on the green felt tabletop, and there was a nasty scar in the palm. Turning it over, he revealed the entry wound in the back of the hand where the blade went through.

The bartender went on, “Mr. Strongheart, he told me the names of my three kids and my wife. He told me I would make me some extra money each month by just keeping my mouth shut, but if not, my whole family would be kilt.”

“Where does he stay in Denver?” Strongheart said.

Luck said, “He stays in a hotel . . .”

Crash!

Luck's luck ran out. The bullet hole appeared in the middle of Luck's forehead and three other shots, out of many, hit his torso before it fell to the floor. Lucky dropped to the floor drawing his .44.

Strongheart, already firing into the darkness, said, “Take the front door, boss!”

He sprinted toward the now-shattered window and dove headfirst into the darkness, firing as he went. He heard thundering hoofbeats as several horses ran into the darkness, and he fired after them. Strongheart headed back to the front door of the saloon and went in. Lucky was heading back into the poker room and pushing gawkers out of the way. Joshua and Lucky quickly looked the scene over for additional clues but saw none.

They went back out into the saloon and Lucky approached the other bartender and started questioning him. In the meantime, Joshua spotted a cowpuncher sitting with his back to the corner and at a table, and noticed he was watching the door. Strongheart walked over to the table and grabbed a chair.

“Mind if I sit?” he said.

The cowpuncher said, “Help yourself. Name is Rowdy Gaits, and yer Strongheart, the Pinkerton.”

They shook as Joshua said, “Guilty. You been a lawman, haven't you?”

Gaits said, “Yep. Punching cows now, but worn a tin star most of my grown-up life.”

Strongheart said, “Figured that. I saw how you were watching the door and crowd. After we took that bartender in the back, did you see anybody who might have told the bushwhackers?”

“No, sir,” Rowdy replied. “One feller left the saloon after you went back, but he looked like a man who would spend an hour finding his horse outside.”

Joshua chuckled, stood, and shook again, saying, “Well, that is easy enough to understand. Thanks. Nice to meet you.”

Rowdy said, “Been an honor. I have heard many good things about you.”

Joshua returned to Lucky just as two deputy town
marshals came in, and they shook hands with Lucky and Strongheart.

Lucky said to Joshua, “You talk to these gentlemen, and I will head to the jail. Those two men you brought in are obviously in danger.”

Joshua escorted the two deputies into the poker room, and they surveyed the damage and the body. Joshua detailed the shooting for them. Then, they went out into the saloon, and he bought them each beers and had lemonade himself, while they filled out a report.

A half hour later, Strongheart left and headed for the jail. Lucky was there speaking with a deputy. Joshua sat down.

“It has been quiet so far,” Lucky said. “You weel—will—handle them anyway, Joshua.”

Strongheart shook his head looking out the window.

“Lucky,” Joshua said, “you remember when I got shot up so bad in that gunfight down in Florence, Colorado?”

“Do I remember?” Lucky replied. “You lingered near death forever. You had many holes in you, my young friend.”

Strongheart said, “Two things. One, I did not care right then. I was just angry. Two, I knew that I have trained with pistols, rifles, my knife, for years, for many hours. Most of them were young men, most who probably could never even afford one. I knew they would feel very confident in their superior numbers, so taking them on was not really amazing.”

“I disagree, Strongheart. Everybody does. You fought an army and won single-handedly,” Lucky exclaimed.

“Yes, but they were not really an army,” the tall Pinkerton replied. “They were a gang of untrained men who had not ever practiced much with guns. Only one man, their leader, could shoot.”

He looked out the window and walked back to the table.

“These men that Hartwell has can kill me easy in a fight,”
Joshua said, “These men are trained, experienced shootists. Gunfighters who have shot while being shot at before. It will be a totally different fight. I have to get an edge.”

Lucky said, “What?

Strongheart was frightened. He hated being scared, but he also knew that it was natural. He had a large group of trained gunfighters who were being paid good money to kill him. He also knew that fear would help keep him alive, on edge, prepared. He had to figure out how to handle them though.

He looked at his boss and confessed, “I don't know, but I will think of something.”

“Whatever you do, Joshua,” Lucky teased, “please do not get shot up again. Do you know how much time I wasted having to visit you in the hospital here in Denver?”

Strongheart grinned and just then the window of the sheriff's office exploded with flying glass and Lucky was slammed backward into the wall, a bright red splotch of blood on his chest. He was unconscious already.

Joshua looked at the two deputies and said, “Get the bleeding stopped and get a doctor quick!”

He jumped through the shattered window, gun drawn, one eye closed, so his eyes would quickly adjust to the darkness outside when he opened them. He hit the sidewalk on his feet and kept going forward into the dirt street in a shoulder roll as two bullets cracked above his head. Joshua fired, rolled to his left, fanned his Peacemaker, rolled to his right, and fired again, then quickly reloaded. He was firing where the flashes appeared in a window across the street. He heard what sounded like a body falling hard, and he dashed across the road and into the hotel, up the steps, and kicked in the door of the room where the shots originated.

He found two men, one moaning on the floor with an upper chest/shoulder wound and a second lying flat on his
back with a bullet hole directly above his right eye. That man had a Sharps .45–70 Government rifle lying next to his body.

He turned his attention to the wounded man and immediately knew the man had to have a broken collarbone and probably a broken right shoulder. He kept his eyes focused on the sniper's eyes and his left hand. Both men had expensive suits on and wore holsters indicating they were experienced gunfighters.

Strongheart said, “Mister, I know you are a shootist, so that tells me you have a hideout belly gun. My question is, do you want to die trying to pull it?”

The gun hand grimaced in pain and said, “Yer right, Strongheart. It is tucked into my right boot. Just then, his left hand whipped out from under his coat holding a Navy .36 and Joshua's Peacemaker spit fire. The man felt a bullet slam into his chest and then a second one. Everything went black and he felt the life leave his body, and then he felt nothing.

A deputy ran in the door, gun drawn, and Strongheart winked at him, saying, “I wish I could have questioned him.”

The deputy asked, “Hideout gun?”

“Yep,” Strongheart said. “He tried to go for it, but was a bit slow. How is my boss?”

“Bad,” the deputy answered. “They are rushing a doctor to him. Go ahead. I will take care of this.”

Strongheart ran back to the office and was very saddened to see his boss and close friend Lucky lifeless on the floor. A doctor was hovered over him listening with a stethoscope. Joshua could see two bullet holes in his chest, large ones.

He asked, “Doctor, will he live?”

Not looking up, the doctor said, “I don't know. I am not hearing any bubbling from his lungs and both bullets missed his heart. You are Mr. Strongheart?”

“Yes, Doc,” Joshua replied.

The doctor responded, “I have heard a good bit about you from other doctors and nurses, all good.”

“What will you do with him?”

The doctor said, “I have an ambulance coming as soon as they hitch up the team. We will transport him to the same hospital you stayed in so long. I would prefer, Mr. Strongheart, that you not come there tonight. We will be working on him all night, I believe.”

Joshua said, “He got shot because he was around me. When you can talk to him, tell him I filed a report with Chicago, which I will go do now, and tell him I killed both men that plugged him. Please also tell him I am going on to my assignment. That is what will stop this bushwhacking.”

The doctor said, “I will. In fact, deputy, if you will please transcribe all that for me, so I get it correctly.”

The deputy in the corner of the office went to the desk and pulled out paper, ink, and pen, saying, “Will do, Doctor.”

Suddenly, Lucky opened his eyes and said, “Joshua?”

Strongheart knelt down by his boss and friend.

He said, “Yes, Lucky?”

Lucky said, “I heard you. I will be fine. Go get the rest of them. Shut down the Indian Ring.”

Joshua said, “You have my word.”