Moonshine Massacre

Chapter 24

Sam froze, mentally chiding himself for letting Bickford slip up on him unnoticed. He had been concentrating on what the prisoner inside the wagon was telling him. It was possible, too, that Bickford was capable of more stealth than should have been possible, considering his appearance.

“Marshal Bickford, is that you?” Sam asked as the wheels of his brain spun swiftly. “It looks like someone attacked your guards and knocked them out. I just came down here to check on the wagons—”

Bickford’s chuckle interrupted him. “Nice try, Sam,” the man said, “but I’ve been over there under that tree for the last few minutes, listening while that varmint inside the wagon spun that crazy yarn. It’s a good thing I decided to come down here and check on things before I turned in for the night.”

“Yeah, that story is crazy, isn’t it?” Sam agreed. “I didn’t believe him, of course.”

“Well, see…I don’t believe you. I heard you tell him that you and Marshal Coleman were going to talk to all the prisoners, and we can’t have that.”

“I was just going along with what he said—” Sam began.

The gun muzzle pressed harder against the back of his neck as Bickford plucked Sam’s gun from its holster. His voice had lost all its jovial affability as he said, “Shut up, you damned redskin. You think I’m gonna take any chances on a sweet deal like this getting ruined?”

“You admit it, then? You’ve been taking bribes and murdering the prisoners who won’t pay up?”

“You know how much money I’ve made in my whole career as a lawman, half-breed? Not as much as I’ve made in the past few months as a special marshal. And that’s with splitting the take with Porter and paying off those hardcases we hired as deputies, too.” Bickford paused. “I’d be a damned fool to give that up. I won’t give it up. All I’ve got to do is figure out a way to kill you and make it look like one of these prisoners did it.”

“You can’t get away with that,” Sam told him.

“I don’t see why the hell not. Those guards you knocked out probably never saw you. They’re still out cold, and they don’t know what happened. Nobody will ever get a chance to talk to the other prisoners, at least not without Porter and me being right there to make sure they keep their mouths shut, so we’re in the clear there. I’ll shoot you, then get one of those bastards out of the wagon and kill him, too. When I put a gun in his hand, it’ll look like he broke out, knocked out the two guards, and then shot you when you came along and interrupted his escape, but not in time to keep you from shooting him. Nobody’s gonna question a story like that.”

“Marshal Coleman might.”

“Even if he does, he won’t be able to prove a thing,” Bickford insisted blandly.

Sam thought desperately, searching for a way out of this. He could move with blinding speed when he needed to, but he wasn’t sure he could twist away from the gun fast enough to keep Bickford from pulling the trigger and putting a bullet in his brain. He needed something to distract Bickford…

“You’re not as smart as you think you are, Marshal,” he said. “If you shoot me and then take the time to unlock the wagon and force one of those wounded prisoners out at gunpoint so you can kill him, too, there’ll be too big a gap between the shots. As close as we are to town, somebody’s bound to hear the shots and remember how far apart they were. They might even come down here to see what was going on before you’d have a chance to gun down the prisoner and frame him for killing me.”

Bickford didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Sam could almost see the frown that creased the man’s forehead as he pondered what Sam had just said.

“Maybe you got a point there,” Bickford finally admitted. “Come on. Back up. We’ll unlock the wagon and get the prisoner out of there first.”

Sam had hoped that Bickford would take the gun away from his neck and step to the rear of the wagon to unlock the door. That would have given Sam a chance to turn the tables on him. Instead, Bickford kept the revolver pressed against his neck and forced him to back to the rear of the wagon.

“All right, swing around, but stay facing away from me,” Bickford ordered when they got there. “If I feel even a muscle tremble, I’ll pull the trigger and take my chances. I mean it, Sam.”

“I know you do,” Sam said. There was no doubt in his mind now that Bickford was a cold-blooded murderer.

He heard keys rattle and knew Bickford was trying to unlock the door and keep an eye on him at the same time. That might be enough of a distraction for him to risk making a move.

But Bickford was more deft than Sam expected him to be. The heavy padlock on the door clicked open, and Sam heard the door’s hinges squeal a little as it swung open.

“You,” Bickford said. “Barnabas, or whatever the hell your name is. Get out here.”

“I…I’m hurt, Marshal,” came the response from inside the wagon, in the voice belonging to the man Sam had been talking to only moments earlier. “I don’t reckon I can make it.”

“Sure you can. Come on out, or I’ll put a bullet in your knee and drag you out.”

“You’re just gonna kill me anyway,” Barnabas said defiantly. “I heard what you told that fella. Why should I cooperate?”

“Because you can die quick, or you can die in a hell of a lot of pain. It’s up to you.”

After a brief moment, Barnabas sighed. “All right. I’m comin’ out.”

Sam heard the man’s scraping, hesitant footsteps and knew that he was running out of time. He had to make his move…

Then suddenly, he heard a splash and Bickford cried out. Sam acted instantly, spinning away from the gun muzzle pressed against his neck. Bickford must have jerked the trigger in reaction to whatever had just happened to him, because the revolver blasted, the shot coming so close to Sam that the explosion slammed his ear like a fist and he felt the sting of burning particles of gunpowder against the side of his face. The bullet itself missed, though, and that was all that really mattered.

A stench filled the air, a foul mixture of human waste and burned powder. As Sam whirled around, he saw Bickford stumbling around and pawing at his face. The man who stood in the door to the prison wagon held a wooden bucket in his hand, and when Sam saw that, he knew that Barnabas must have thrown the contents of the slops bucket into Bickford’s face.

“Bucket!” Sam called.

Barnabas tossed it to him over Bickford’s head. Sam caught it by the handle and swung it. At the same time, Bickford jerked his gun up and fired again, aiming blindly this time at the sound of Sam’s voice. The slug whipped past Sam’s ear just as the bucket in his hand crashed against the side of Bickford’s head.

The impact of the blow from the heavy bucket drove Bickford off his feet. Sam kicked the gun out of his hand, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the sound of breaking bones he heard as the toe of his boot slammed into Bickford’s wrist. The pistol flew from Bickford’s fingers and sailed off into the darkness as Bickford howled in pain.

Sam reached down, grabbed the lapels of Bickford’s coat, and hauled the smaller man upright again. He smashed Bickford against the side of the wagon twice, then let go of him and allowed Bickford to fall forward on his face. The crooked marshal didn’t move, just lay there in the grass groaning softly.

The prisoner called Barnabas had come down onto the steps attached to the back of the wagon. “Is he dead?” he asked.

“No,” Sam said as he bent and picked up his own Colt, which he had spotted on the ground where Bickford had dropped it. “Get back inside,” he added.

“What?” Barnabas sounded like he couldn’t believe it. “I just saved your life, Deputy.”

“Yes, but you’re still a prisoner until we get this all sorted out,” Sam snapped as he lifted the gun to cover Barnabas. “Besides, those shots are liable to bring Porter and the rest of those gunmen down here, and you’ll be safer in there with the door closed. Those walls are thick enough to stop most bullets.”

“That’s true,” Barnabas admitted. He reached for the door to pull it closed after him as he retreated into the wagon. “Just don’t forget we’re in here! And don’t get yourself killed before you can get us out!”

“Do my best,” Sam muttered. He still had to deal with Ambrose Porter and the other eight deputies, and those were bad odds.

But he suspected that Marshal Coleman would have heard the shots, too, and would be coming to investigate. Coleman might unwittingly plunge right into a hornets’ nest. Once Porter realized that Sam was on to their scheme, he would have to eliminate any possible witnesses.

The whole town might be in danger, Sam realized as an icy finger traced a trail down his spine. Porter might try to slaughter all the citizens and then burn Cottonwood to the ground to cover up the massacre.

Surprise was the only thing Sam had going for him, and considering the odds, that was going to be only a slight advantage.

He picked up Bickford’s pistol and tucked it behind his belt, then found the rifle that the guard on the lead wagon had dropped. Armed for bear now, Sam retreated behind the wagon and peered around the end of the vehicle, waiting to see what was going to happen.

He didn’t have to wait long. Heavy, hurrying footsteps thudded on the ground, and Ambrose Porter ran through the trees and up to the creek, trailed by several of the deputies. At least all of them hadn’t come with Porter, Sam thought. Porter must not have been able to find the others, who could have been playing cards at the hotel, eating at the café, or involved in some other activity that kept Porter from locating them easily. So the odds were only six to one. Right now, Sam would take any stroke of luck he could get, even that.

“Bickford!” Porter called as he spotted his partner’s body lying on the ground. “What the hell?”

Dropping to a knee, Porter grabbed Bickford’s shoulder and rolled the man onto his back. He recoiled at the smell that drifted up from Bickford’s clothes.

“What in damnation happened here?” Sam heard Porter mutter. Then the man straightened and turned toward the wagon.

Sam realized too late that even though Barnabas had closed the door, he had neglected to replace the padlock, so Porter knew right away the door had been opened. Sam saw Porter stiffen with that realization. Then Porter said to the deputies, “Get ready. We may have to kill all the prisoners.”

Before Sam would stand by and let that happen, he would take his chances and shoot it out with Porter and the other men. He tightened his grip on the Winchester and tensed his muscles, ready to leap out into the open and start firing.

A second later, the thunderous roar of gunshots filled the night—but they didn’t come from Sam Two Wolves, Ambrose Porter, or any of the crooked deputies.

Instead, it sounded like a small but intense war had just broken out in the streets of Cottonwood.