Moonshine Massacre

Chapter 20

Sam watched as Ambrose Porter, Calvin Bickford, and the other men drove the prison wagons into the shade of the trees along the creek at Cottonwood. Porter designated two deputies to stand guard over the wagons, while the others took the saddle mounts to the livery stable.

They would probably be surprised, Sam mused, if they knew they were turning their horses over to the man responsible for selling illegal liquor here in town.

Sam wasn’t just about to tell them, though, and he didn’t think that anyone else in the settlement would, either.

Porter and Bickford left the wagons and walked toward Main Street, carrying their rifles. As they came closer to Sam, Porter stopped short and frowned at him, suspicion etched deeply on the hawkish, sunburned face.

“Don’t I know you?” he snapped.

“We met yesterday,” Sam said. “Ten miles west of here where you blew up that cabin.”

Bickford grinned and said, “Oh, yeah, sure! Ambrose, this is that fella Two Wolves. Where’s your friend Bodine?”

“Tending to some business of his own,” Sam replied.

Bickford nodded at the badge pinned to Sam’s shirt. “You didn’t mention you were a lawman.”

“Wasn’t, then,” Sam replied with a shake of his head. “I just took the job of deputy to Marshal Coleman today.”

“Marshal Marshall Coleman,” Bickford said with a laugh. “A good man, from what I hear.”

“He is,” Sam said.

Porter said, “Stay out of our way.”

Sam frowned. “I wasn’t intending to—”

“Our authority supersedes yours,” Porter went on as if Sam hadn’t said anything. “If you try to interfere with us, you’ll be subject to the same treatment we’d give anyone selling or brewing illegal liquor.”

Sam tried to rein in his temper, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You mean you’ll blow me up with a bomb, too?”

“Just give me an excuse,” Porter said between clenched teeth. Then he pushed past Sam, brushing him harder with a shoulder than he needed to.

Sam half turned to watch him go, then said to Bickford, who still stood there, “Is he like that with everybody?”

Bickford sighed. “I’m afraid Ambrose doesn’t have much patience with people. He’s very devoted to his job, you understand, and he can’t stand the idea of anything or anyone keeping him from doing it to his fullest.”

“If he keeps that up, somebody’s going to take offense and draw on him.”

Bickford shook his head. “It would be a real shame if that happened. Ambrose is pretty fast on the draw himself, you see. In fact, I’ve never come across anybody faster. I’m not sure even your friend Bodine could beat him.” The pudgy little special marshal brightened. “Luckily, we’ll never have to find out, because you and Bodine are law-abiding citizens, aren’t you, Sam?”

“We try to be,” Sam allowed.

“And now that you’re a fellow lawman, well, I’m sure there won’t be any trouble. In fact, if we need a hand while we’re here in town, we’ll be able to count on you, won’t we?”

Sam didn’t care for the question, but he had to nod. “Sure. How long do you plan to be here?”

“I suppose that’ll depend on what the doctor says about our prisoners. If he thinks they’re fit to travel, we’ll probably pull out later today and get started to Wichita. If not, I guess we’ll wait a few days and let them get stronger.”

Sam nodded again. He knew that Marshal Coleman wanted Bickford, Porter, and the others out of Cottonwood as soon as possible, so he hoped the doctor would say the prisoners were all right to travel now.

“Ambrose has gone to find the doctor,” Bickford went on. “We should know something soon.”

“It would be a good idea if you kept Marshal Coleman informed about what you’re doing.”

“Of course.” Bickford’s head bobbed up and down in a nod. “We always try to cooperate with the local law.”

Sam didn’t figure that Porter cooperated with anybody, but he didn’t say that.

“Say, did Coleman tell you to keep an eye on the wagons?” Bickford went on.

“That’s right.”

“It’s not necessary, you know. We always have at least two men standing guard.”

“Yes, I can see that, but since that’s what he told me to do…”

“Of course, of course. Wouldn’t want you to disobey orders, especially your first day on the job!” Bickford raised a hand in farewell. “Well, see you later. I’m going to go find a café and get a cup of coffee. Nothing like a hot cup of belly wash!”

The amiable little special marshal walked off toward Main Street. Sam moved into the shade of a cottonwood, leaned against a tree trunk, crossed his arms over his chest, and settled down to watch the wagons as Marshal Coleman had told him to do.

The moaning and cursing that came from inside the wagons brought a frown to Sam’s face after only a few minutes. Not so much the profanities, but the sounds of men in pain bothered him. He stood it for a while, but eventually he straightened from his casual pose against the tree and walked toward the wagons.

One of the guards saw him coming and stepped out to meet him. The man was rawboned and had a lantern jaw with dark stubble on it. He held a Winchester at a slant across his narrow chest.

“You best hold it right there, mister,” he warned as Sam came closer.

Sam stopped. “I’m a deputy, too.”

The man shook his head. “You ain’t a special deputy workin’ for the governor, like I am, so that means you ain’t squat as far as I’m concerned. Marshal Porter said nobody was to come around them prisoners, and that means nobody.”

“Sounds like some of them are in pretty bad shape.”

A leer stretched the guard’s thin-lipped mouth. “Never you mind about what kinda shape they’re in. They got what was comin’ to ’em, the damn moonshiners!”

“You never took a drink yourself?” Sam asked sharply.

The way the guard glared and then suddenly, furtively, ran his tongue over his lips told Sam that the man had indeed taken a drink in the past. He could have used one right now, in fact.

But then a stubborn expression came over the guard’s face, and he said, “That ain’t none o’ your business. Just back off, or when Marshal Porter gets here, I’ll tell him to arrest you, too!”

“Shouldn’t he have been back by now with the doctor?”

“That ain’t none o’ my concern.” The guard started to swing the muzzle of his rifle in Sam’s direction. “Now skedaddle, or—”

The face of one of the prisoners appeared in the small, barred window on the side of the lead wagon. The window was set so high that the man must have had to pull himself up somehow.

“Mister!” he cried in a wretched voice. “Mister, you gotta help us!”

The guard whipped around and yelled, “You get away from that window, you bastard!”

The prisoner was looking straight at Sam. “They’re gonna murder us! You gotta help!”

“I said shut up, damn you!” The guard lunged at the wagon. Sam followed and saw that the prisoner was holding on to the bars, supporting himself that way. Then the guard lashed out with his rifle, slamming the barrel against the bars and smashing the prisoner’s fingers. The man screeched in pain and dropped out of sight.

“You probably broke his fingers!” Sam exclaimed angrily.

The guard whirled toward him, snarling, “I told you to get the hell out—”

Sam’s patience had reached its limits. He reached out, took hold of the guard’s rifle, and plucked the weapon out of the man’s hands. Sam’s movements were so smooth and efficient that he didn’t even appear to be moving fast, but in reality, he had taken the guard’s rifle away before the man even knew what happened. When the guard let out an outraged howl and clawed at the revolver holstered on his hip, Sam swung the Winchester and caught the man on the side of the head with the stock, knocking him senseless to the ground.

“You sonuva—”

That angry shout came from the other guard, who was charging toward him. Sam dropped the rifle, pivoted lightly, and drew his Colt at the same time. The special deputy skidded to a shocked, frightened halt as he found himself staring down the rock-steady barrel of Sam’s revolver from a distance of about four feet.

“Whatever you were about to do, I’d advise you not to,” Sam said quietly.

The man’s prominent Adam’s apple jumped up and down as he swallowed. “Mister, you’re crazy! When Porter gets back here, he’ll throw you in one of those wagons!”

“He may try,” Sam said. Despite the fact that Matt was generally the more reckless and hotheaded of the pair, Sam had just as deep a reserve of outrage when he saw something happening that shouldn’t be. And when Sam Two Wolves finally lost his temper, as was about to happen here, he was every bit as much a man to stand aside from as Matt Bodine was.

He went on. “Put your rifle on the ground, and then put your pistol beside it.”

“I’m not givin’ up my guns,” the guard insisted. Sam had to give him credit for some courage. It took sand to refuse to follow orders when a fella was pointing a gun at your face from only a few feet away.

The standoff came to an end a couple of heartbeats later when Marshal Coleman roared, “What in blazes is goin’ on here?”

“Stand aside!” That was Ambrose Porter. “Stand aside, by God! I’m going to kill that man!”

“The hell you will! That’s my deputy!”

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Coleman and Porter hurrying toward the wagons, trailed by a man in a dark suit who was probably Cottonwood’s doctor. Porter carried his rifle, and Coleman had drawn his handgun. It was a question now of who was going to shoot who.

But it seemed entirely likely that one way or another, in the next moment or two, bullets were going to fly.