CHAPTER ONE
I'm known as a hard man. But even hard men ride careful on the Outlaw Trail. Not that I'm on the wrong side of John Law, though some say I am. And I never claimed any different, not being prone to talk a lot.
Maybe I got that outlaw image because I am hard. Never take guff from any man. Not that I look for it, but trouble just seems to come my way naturally.
After the sun painted its version of heaven's glory across the clear Utah sky, the night got black as a Ute warrior's insides. No moon. Ol' Buck slowed to a careful walk through the darkness. He naturally stepped quiet, being wild born and mountain bred. I smelled the Colorado first, a fragrance of wet earth and green leaves you don't find in the desert. A little later, I heard the water moving along with the full-throated chuckle of a grown river.
Then Buck stopped.
I froze, too, breathing shallow. The horse pricked his ears toward the mountain side of the trail, so I shucked my Winchester and piled off the downhill side. I liked that horse, but few weapons-not even big Sharps buffalo guns-could shoot clear through a big horse like my buckskin.
I could hear only silence, like nothing was breathing, so I just stood there with my rifle ready.
"Ness Havelock? That you, Ness?"
I'd heard that calm, low-pitched voice before. But I couldn't place it, so I didn't answer. A man can get shot in the dark by speaking up too soon.
"Guess it must be you, Ness," the voice continued. "You ain't shooting, and you ain't running. It's Isom Dart. I got coffee on."
Isom Dart, the outlaw mail. If a body wanted to talk to anyone on the Outlaw Trail, he just told Isom, and the message got delivered. That black man had a mighty good reputation. I led the buckskin in the direction of his receding footsteps.
Isom sure knew how to pick a camp. He'd chosen a spot in an arroyo that took water into the Colorado after a rain. Right now, the bottom was bone dry. The slight breeze wafted the fragrance of coffee up the cut and into the mountains. A rider on the Trail wouldn't be able to smell it. And that fire -- I could've covered the whole thing with my hat.
Dart held up the pot and I stuck out my tin mug. We sat drinking coffee and savoring the night for a while.
"They's trouble abrew down in Little Colorado country," he said after a bit. Word come over the line that Roland Prince's looking for you. Says he needs help."
I had my thoughts fixed on a pretty Spanish girl by the name of Margarita San Antonio Pilar y Guerrero. Rita. But now . . .
"Owe Prince a lot," I said.
"Heard about Sonora. I know you don't need no advice, Ness, but somethin' about this don't set right. You need to ride wide awake."
"Thanks for the coffee, Isom. And the message. I'd stay for breakfast, but I've got a feather bed waiting in Moab."
Isom looked at me with those sad brown eyes of his. "The word's out, Ness. And a feather bed's as good a place to bushwhack a man as any."
Isom was far behind me when I topped the bluff above Moab. The Mormon side of the river was quiet. Few windows showed lights. But on the heathen side, things were just getting warmed up. Whoops and hollers drifted out to meet me when I was still a good mile off. I couldn't help but grin. I rubbed a hand through a two-day growth of beard. A beer and a shave, that's what I needed. Still, I slipped the thong off the hammer of my six-gun as I rode across the wooden bridge over the Colorado.
Some folks thought I wore my Colt peculiar, high on my left hip, butt forward. I got that style from my brother, Garet, a no-give lawman. Wearing my iron like that, all I had to do was slip my hand around that walnut grip, yank it out, and start shootin'.
A lantern burned in front of the livery barn. In its pool of light, an old man sat reading. He squinted up at me as I rode up. "One stall left, mister, back on the right. Hay's in the loft and oats in the bin in the corner. Fifty cents."
I put four bits on the upturned palm and led the buckskin to the last open stall. I rubbed him down, forked his hay, and put two quarts of oats in his feed box. When I got back to the door, the old timer was still reading his book, mouthing each word through his white beard.
"Always did like a good book," I said to make conversation. "Makes a man consider some."
He put a finger on a word to hold his place. "You got something to say, stranger, get it said. If not, just amble along, so's I can get on with my Blackstone."
"Blackstone, is it? Writes a good book on law. Tell me, is there anyone in town I should watch out for?"
"Jigger Baines is here. And J.T. Carr is down from Wyoming."
"What's a lawman doing here?"
"Ain't heard. Mebbe he's after Ruel Gatlin. The boy shot a bartender up to Casper the other day."
At the name Gatlin, my scars itched. I had three, one for each of the Gatlin boys, though Lawrence Gatlin put two bullets in me while I was killing his brothers.
Back then, Telluride was just a swarm of canvas and clapboard shacks and miners' tents with a long line of saloons. My Gatlin trouble started in the Lucky Seven. While I'm not a hard drinker, I like to cut the dust with a glass of good rye. And the ride through the high Colorado mountains from Ouray to Telluride had been a long one.
The Gatlins had the town pretty well buffaloed, but I never have been one to move just because someone leaned on me. The main street boasted one two-story frame building, the Watson House, the bottom floor a saloon, and the upper one full of rooms with women's names on them.
I'd no more than bellied up against the smooth wood of the beautiful bar in the Watson House, gotten a glass of good rye, and started to salute myself in the mirror, than a big muscle of a man come in the front door. I push at six feet, but he stood a good two inches above me and weighed maybe fifty pounds over my one eighty.
He dressed fine, but his bloodshot eyes didn't look the dandy. He reminded me of a big old longhorn bull I flushed popping brush for Charlie Goodnight down in Texas. I just left that old bull there, pawing in the brush. I'd a done the same with the man, too, if he'd a given me the chance.
I turned my back to the door, putting my left hip against the bar so the butt of my Colt was only an inch away from my right hand. In the mirror I watched the big man come. He wanted me and no one else. He stopped spraddle-legged about five feet behind me and growled, "Hey, you."
I turned a little to look at him.
"Telluride don't have no room for drifters. Drink up and ride on." He balanced forward on his toes, glaring at me.
I kept my voice low. "I don't see a badge on you, mister."
His face went red. "Gatlins are law here. I'm Mort Gatlin and I say you leave. Now!"
With my left hand, I flicked that good rye whiskey into Mort Gatlin's eyes. With my right, I plucked out my Colt and whacked the side of his head just above the ear with its seven-and-a-half-inch barrel hard. He went down and stayed there.
"You'd better ride, mister." The bartender's voice was low and not unfriendly. "Mort Gatlin's got two brothers, and one of 'em's bigger'n him. All three are hell raisers with guns."
"Thanks, but I've got a hankering to sleep in a good bed. Know where I could get a little rest?"
"Ma Blaisdell's got a boarding house down the street about half a mile. Just a simple house, but it's first rate."
"Obliged." I tossed him a coin for the rye and the conversation. He tossed it back.
"Keep your money. 'Twas worth it to see Mort Gatlin hit the floor."
"Well, once he wakes up, he'll be wanting to know who buffaloed him. Tell him Johannes Havelock's gone to Ma Blaisdell's for a rest. Tell him it'd be healthy to let Mr. Havelock ride out peaceful."
The bartender grinned. "I'll tell him, but I don't think he'll listen."
"Then I'll have to read him some of the gospel according to Sam Colt." I stepped around Gatlin's inert body and walked out. I found Ma Balisdell's place right where the bartender had said.
"Havelock," Mort Gatlin's bull voice roared. "You've lived too long."
By the time his shout died away, I was wide awake and catfootin' down the hallway to the back door, boots in my left hand and gun in my right. I pulled the boots on and stepped out into the bright Colorado day. Slipping around behind the line of buildings, I came out on the main street about a hundred feet from the three big men standing in front of Ma Blaisdell's. I holstered my six-gun and said, "You boys looking for me?"
Mort went for his gun. I plucked mine out, took a quick step to my right, and shot Mort through the left shirt pocket. The other Gatlins were no more'n a split second behind Mort, but I still managed to get a bullet into big Steve before the smaller one, Lawrence, put lead into me.
The force of his bullet turned me around and I fell. Scrambling across the hard ground, Gatlin bullets kicking chunks of dirt at me, I fetched up against the hitching post, gun aimed at Lawrence Gatlin's head. Then I shifted and shot him in the stomach. The biggest Gatlin sprawled at the edge of the porch and lay still.
I caught a movement from the corner of my eye and was already rolling when a second bullet plowed into me. I'd mistaken Mort Gatlin for dead. Now I was hit and hit bad. I could barely see Mort through the red haze that settled over my eyes, but almost by instinct, I triggered off a round that tore a chunk from his head.
I wiped my sleeve across my face, trying to get the blood out of my eyes. In the distance, I heard a gun firing and felt the burn of a bullet across my shoulder. Squinting, I made out Lawrence Gatlin, one hand on his bloody stomach, trying to thumb back the hammer of his Colt for another shot. My bullet caught him in the throat, slamming him against Ma Blaisdell's front porch. His hands clawed at the wall, leaving streaks of red on the white clapboards.
Then all was silent. Smoke drifted down the street. I heaved myself to my feet and reloaded, scooped my hat from the ground, and staggered to my horse. I heard the murmur of folks gatherin' as I rode out of Telluride toward Utah.
I made it to Moab, but just barely. I went to Myra Beck's place, and she pulled me through. Two weeks in a feather bed with plenty of care got me back on my feet. Myra was a widow, her man killed by Utes about fifteen years earlier. I guess she's as close to a mother as I ever had. Mine died in the Indian Nations while I was being born.
When the old geezer at the livery stable told me Ruel, the fourth and youngest Gatlin, was in town, the old scars started hurting again. I hesitated for a moment, then made my way toward the sounds of revelry.
The saloons stood out among the dark buildings lining the street, two on the south side, one on the north. At the door of the Lamplight, I turned to look across the street at The Pig's Ear and the Buckhorn. The tinny tunes from the pianos mixed, and once in a while, a wild whoop or a shrill laugh wafted across the street as the girls and their customers sparred in the yellow light of coal oil lamps.
Inside, the Lamplight was dark enough that a man's eyes didn't have to adjust much coming in out of the night. A woman sat at the piano in a far corner, playing soothing music. The click of a ball against the roulette wheel's dividers was the loudest sound in the room.
Ed Snedeker stood behind his bar, a contented look on his round, red face. His hair was parted precisely in the middle and greased down to cling to his round skull. Ed knew more about what was going on up and down the Trail than anyone, save Isom Dart. He moved down in front of me.
"Rye?"
I nodded.
"J.T. Carr's been asking about you."
"I'm here."
Ed slid a shot glass of good rye down the bar. It stopped in front of me without a drop spilled. As I picked up the glass, Carr walked in.
He paused just inside, then sauntered over. He put both hands on the bar so I wouldn't misunderstand.
"Hear you're headed south," he said.
"I am."
"Mind if I ride along?"
"Suit yourself. I'm leaving first light. After a drink or two, I'll head for a good night's rest in a feather bed."
"I'd sleep lightly, if I was you. Some'd feel better if you never got to Arizona. Sid Lyle's talking about dealing with Ness Havelock. Permanent. And he's got help."
"Who?"
"Junior Willis, Kid Kilgallen, Nate Blackthorn, and Carl Jaeger," Carr said. He turned to go, then looked back. "Oh, Ruel Gatlin is in town. He wants you, too."
I paid for the rye and left. On my way to Myra Beck's place, a flicker in the shadows caught my eye. Later, as I was ready to settle into that soft feather tick, I remembered the movement. Out of caution, I bunched up the bedclothes to look something like a body, took my Colt in hand, and put myself in the far corner with a blanket.
A shotgun blast and the sound of shattering glass woke me instantly. I started to shoot back, then chuckled under my breath. Someone had just shot Ness Havelock dead.