Drifter 1 Page 3

The following events occurred with such ferocity that they would be talked about for years to come.

  ~*~

  Sheriff Matt Bryson and his deputy, Billy Peters had just entered the jail from the rear when an old timer named Ira blundered through the front door.

  Bryson had been sheriff of Summerton for the past six years and although now past the age of forty-five, could still perform his duties adequately to keep the town council happy.

  His deputy was half his age and where Bryson was solid, Peters was gangly.

  They had been talking when Ira burst in but the old man’s face brought about an abrupt halt to their conversation.

  “What’s up Ira?” Bryson asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or somethin’.”

  “He’s here,” the pale-faced old timer gasped. “I saw him with my own eyes. Rode into town as large as life.”

  Bryson frowned. “Who’s here?”

  Ira’s eyes widened. “John Carver.”

  Billy Peters chuckled. “Have you been drinkin’, old man?”

  “No, sir. He’s here alright,” Ira confirmed. “He even left some men across the street. They’re just sittin’ there watchin’ the jail.”

  “How do you know it’s him?” Peters asked skeptically.

  “I seen him before the war. He passed through here once. I’d know his face anywhere.”

  Bryson walked over to the window and looked across the street and confirmed what Ira had said. Four men, sitting, watching, waiting for something.

  The lawman thought for a moment then crossed to the gun-rack that hung on the wall near a blackened potbellied stove. He took down a coach gun and a Henry rifle.

  The latter he tossed across to Peters.

  The deputy looked questioningly at Bryson and the sheriff nodded. “He was right. There’s four strangers across the street watchin’ the jail.”

  Bryson crossed to his scarred desk and opened a drawer. From it, he dug out some shotgun shells loaded two into the breech of the coach gun then stuffed some spares into his pockets.

  Next, he found a box of cartridges for the Henry and gave them to Peters. He gave the young man a serious look and said, “When the shootin’ starts, keep your head down and don’t do anythin’ stupid. These fellers are killers and they won’t hesitate to shoot.”

  Peters felt his nerves start to jangle and he began to feel queasy. He nodded jerkily. “OK, sure.”

  Bryson turned his steely gaze on Ira. “Can you go out the back door and round up some help?”

  The old timer swallowed then cleared his throat. “I can do that. I think.”

  “Get Ed, George, Ben, Grayson, Walter, and anyone else you can think of who can shoot,” Bryson ordered.

  After Ira left, Bryson turned to Peters and said, “Are you ready?”

  He nodded uncertainly.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” Peters blurted out. “You ain’t goin’ out the front are you?”

  “I ain’t walkin’ out into that, Billy,” Bryson assured his deputy. “I ain’t gotten to this age by doin’ foolish things. We’ll head out the back and come up the alleyway. There’s more cover there. Once we get into position, I’m hoping to have some more help.”

  They exited the jail and circled left and made their way up the alley when the thunder of shots sounded from the bank.

  “Hell and damnation,” Bryson cursed. “Follow me and don’t stop. Keep movin’ and firin’.”

  When they burst from the mouth of the alley, the outlaws who’d been staked out the jail were already mounted and now spurred their mounts along the street.

  Bryson propped and unloaded a double charge of buckshot after them but the riders showed no effects from the deadly hail of pellets.

  Meanwhile, Billy fired the Henry, levered and fired again. Bryson noticed a rider lurch in his saddle after the second shot but remain mounted.

  “Come on, Billy,” Bryson called to his deputy and started to jog along the street.

  From a distance, Bryson could see a commotion out the front of the bank. Small puffs of gun smoke bloomed and the flat reports of six-guns cracked out as townsmen engaged the outlaws in a gun battle. He saw two women struggle as they were dragged from the bank and forced up onto waiting horses.

  The two lawmen quickened their pace and as they neared the bank, all of the outlaws were mounted.

  The intensity of the gunfire had increased and Bryson knew that it would be a miracle if the women came through their predicament unscathed.

  He stopped in the center of the street and shouted above the pandemonium, “Watch the women you fools! Aim for the horses.”

  Bryson watched in horror as he saw a bright red stain appear on the front of one woman’s dress. The outlaw who had hold of her, released her limp form and she slid silently to the street.

  Stunned and transfixed by what he had just witnessed, Bryson failed to see the outlaw train his gun in his direction. When the hammer fell, the six-gun roared and Bryson felt the slug slam into his chest. He staggered drunkenly, in an attempt to remain upright. He stared down at his bloody chest then back at the outlaw who’d fired at him. The killer was ready to take his second shot.

  Bryson moved like molasses as he made a try for his own sidearm but was dead before his hand even touched it. The second bullet from the outlaw’s gun smashed into his chest and his world went black.

  “No!” Peters screamed loudly and swung up the Henry. He snapped off a shot and saw the killer throw up his arms then fall from the saddle. Peters took cover beside a water trough as bullets drummed a tattoo on its hardened exterior.

  Another rider with a bullet in the right side of his chest fell from his horse but fired wildly into the mêlée.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Peters saw a townsman get hit, stumble, and fall. Then another took a slug.

  With the sheriff dead, Peters knew that he was the one the townsfolk would look to for leadership. Without further thought, he stood up and walked out into the street.

  He began to fire the Henry, levered and fired, levered and fired. When a hammering blow struck him in his right side, Peters went down on one knee and pressed a hand to his wound. When he took it away he saw the wet redness of his blood.

  He gritted his teeth and stood once more but quickly took another slug. It hit Peters in the left leg above the knee which caused him to crash onto to the street. Pain shot through his body and into his brain. He screamed shrilly and lost his grip on the rifle.

  There was more shouting and then the gunfire dwindled away to nothing. As he lay there, pain caused the world to spin before his eyes. He heard voices that seemed distant and indistinct.

  One of them said with alarm, “The sheriff is dead.”

  Another said bitterly, “So is Mary.”

  “Who was the woman they took?”

  Peters thought that voice sounded like Burns from the livery stable.

  As he was on the verge of an all-consuming blackness, he heard, “It was Amy. The bastards took Amy Savage.”

  Four

  “HOLD IT THERE, Blue-belly,” a voice drawled from the thick brush at the side of the road.

  Savage drew back on the reins and brought his bay mare to a stop in the bright morning sunshine. He was two days from home and he hadn’t survived years of war to die now.

  He still wore his union blue cavalry pants and the shirt to match. He’d swapped his captain’s coat for a buckskin jacket on his trip south but his boots still had some life in them. His Hardee was gone and had been replaced by a low-crowned hat.

  “Keep your hands up and away from that six-gun you got holstered there,” the voice spoke again.

  Savage raised his hands to shoulder height. “Now what?”

  “You can come on out Jeb,” the voice called.

  From the left and rear of Savage sprang a tall, string-bean looking man dressed in Confederate rags. In his hands was a Spencer carbine.

  With a rustle to his front, the speaker emerge
d. He was dressed in a similar fashion to his accomplice, though he was a little shorter. He too was armed with a Spencer.

  The man smiled, a disgusting black-toothed smile and said, “Well lookee what we got here, Jeb.”

  Savage followed the man’s gaze to the Winchester rifle in his saddle scabbard. The man stepped forward and placed his hand on the rifle’s stock. He was about to take it out when Savage’s right hand locked on his wrist in a vice-like grip.

  The man looked at Savage, pain evident in his eyes.

  “You let me go, Yank, or Jeb there will shoot you full of holes,” he warned.

  “Who the hell are you?” Savage demanded.

  The man ignored the question and slid the Winchester out of the scabbard. He whistled appreciatively at the gun they called the “Yellow Boy” with the octagonal barrel. It was basically an improvement of the design of the Henry and fired the .44 Henry cartridge.

  “That sure is a mighty fine rifle, yes sir, mighty fine,” he turned to his friend. “Look Jeb. Did you ever see such a fine rifle in all your born days?”

  “No,” the answer was long and drawn out.

  “I asked you who you were?” Savage said patiently.

  The man looked at Savage sideways and his expression changed from one of appreciation for the rifle to one of disdain for the man.

  He spat on the ground and when he spoke, his voice was full of scorn. “Alright Blue-belly, I’ll answer your question. My name is Lucius. You already know Jeb’s name. Now, who are you?”

  “Jeff Savage.”

  “And where might you be goin’, Savage?”

  “Summerton.”

  “You got some land there you figure on stealin’ from a hard workin’ Texas boy?”

  “I’m goin’ home,” Savage told him.

  Lucius was surprised. “You a son of Texas?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lucius screwed his face up and pointed the Winchester at Savage.

  “What you are is a traitor,” he snarled. “And do you know what we do with scum like you? We hang ’em.”

  Savage tensed.

  “Now get the hell off that horse.”

  Savage eased down from the saddle. “You’re makin’ a mistake friend.”

  “The only mistake around here was made by you, oh and I ain’t yer friend,” Lucius snapped back at him. “Figgerin’ you could come back to Texas. Get a rope Jeb.”

  “We ain’t got a rope, Lucius,” Jeb drawled slowly.

  “I knew that. Shut up,” Lucius bawled. “We’ll just damn well shoot him instead. And we’ll use his own rifle to do it with.”

  As he brought the rifle up to fire, Lucius made a couple of errors in judgment. The first was the failure to take the Remington .44 caliber six-gun from Savage’s holster. The second was not checking to see that there was a load in the Winchester’s breech.

  If he had taken the time, he would’ve known that there was nothing under the hammer.

  There was a dry click when the hammer fell on an empty chamber and Lucius’ eyebrows raised in surprise. His look changed to one of fear as he desperately worked the Winchester’s lever.

  “I told you, you were makin’ a mistake,” Savage said and drew the Remington.

  The gun thundered and the slug blew a hole in Lucius’ skull, killing him instantly. Savage swiveled at the hips and snapped off a shot that struck Jeb in the chest before he could fire his Spencer.

  The tall man fell back and sat down hard. Stunned, he sat blinking, a red stain steadily growing across his chest. He looked up at Savage, confused.

  Jeb opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Then his eyes rolled up and he slumped backwards, dead.

  Savage checked both men before he retrieved their weapons and threw them in the brush. He picked up his Winchester, put it back in its scabbard and reloaded his Remington.

  He ran his gaze over the fateful two and shook his head. For a fleeting moment, he considered burying them but then it was gone. Murderers like them didn’t deserve a decent burial.

  Savage turned his back on them, caught up the reins of his bay and climbed aboard. Without a backward glance. he rode off. He was going home and nothing was about to stop him.

  ~*~

  The sky overhead was a clear blue and the sun had drenched the landscape with its warmth when Savage rode into Summerton’s deserted main street just before noon on the second day.

  As he rode, he pondered his wife’s reaction when she finally saw him. How would she have changed? How much had he changed? And changed he had, just as the war had changed so many.

  Savage frowned and drew the bay to a stop. Where was everyone? The street looked to be uninhabited.

  “Jeff Savage? Is that you?” a voice called out.

  Savage turned his attention to a man who’d emerged from an alley between the Longhorn saloon and the Summerton hotel.

  “Ira?”

  Ira rushed over to where Savage had stopped his horse.

  Savage climbed down to greet the man and they shook firmly.

  “Damn, Savage, it is you. Man am I sure glad to see you,” Ira beamed. “Word was you were dead. But Miss Amy wouldn’t believe it. No, sir.”

  Savage smiled. “Well, at least it wasn’t loaded guns that met me as I rode in. It’s good to see you, Ira. How’ve you been?”

  Savage noticed a sudden change come over his face.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked looking about.

  “They’re at the funerals,” Ira answered somberly.

  “What funerals? Who died?”

  “Sheriff Bryson, Floyd Walker the bank manager, and Cletus Stewart the teller,” Ira explained. “They buried Mary, Calvin, and Ben Hamilton yesterday.”

  “What happened?” Savage asked concerned at the extent of the death toll.

  “John Carver,” Ira told him bitterly. “That’s what happened.”

  Savage felt a chill run down his spine and rubbed absently at his chest.

  “The murderin’ son of a bitch and his gang robbed the Savings and Loan three days ago,” Ira continued. “There was a terrible ruckus and when it was all over, they was all dead. Bryson’s deputy was wounded along with two others. They’re all over at Doc Handley’s place.”

  “What about Carver?”

  “Bastard got away,” Ira said with disgust. “But we brought down two of them, though. Killed one man and the other feller is only wounded. Got him locked away in the jail.”

  “Who led the posse if the town was down two lawmen?” Savage inquired.

  Ira shook his head. “Nobody. They just let ’em get away with all of the town’s money. Not one man in Summerton was willin’ to put their hand up to go after ’em.”

  “Don’t be too harsh on ’em, Ira,” Savage soothed. “Carver and his men are a bad bunch.”

  Ira looked him in the eye and Savage couldn’t help but feel the old timer had held something back.

  “Is there somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me Ira?” he asked.

  “Aww hell, Jeff …” Ira started.

  “Tell me.”

  “When they left, they weren’t alone, Jeff,” Ira began to explain hesitantly. “When they robbed the bank, Amy was there too. They took her with ’em. I’m sorry.”

  Savage felt as though he’d been punched in the middle and been robbed of the air from his lungs. His world spun as a million unanswered questions entered his head. He gathered himself and his icy gaze settled back on Ira. “Which way did they go?”

  “It was three days ago, Jeff,” Ira reasoned. “They’re long gone. It has even rained since then. Any tracks will be washed out.”

  All Savage could think about was Amy and the man who had taken her.

  “Which way?” Savage grated.

  “South,” Ira informed him. “But listen, wait for me. I’ll get a horse and come with you. Maybe I can help.”

  But Savage waited for no one. He leaped back onto the mare and swung her head around.

  “Wait, Jeff,�
�� Ira protested again, as he made a grab for the horse’s bridle. “Let me help.”

  “You and the town have helped enough,” he snarled. “Now get the hell out of my way.”

  Savage heeled the bay roughly and brought it quickly to full stride. As he left town, Savage passed the large crowd gathered at the Summerton cemetery. The strains of “Rock of Ages” hung over them like a heavy cloud.

  ~*~

  Savage found his wife five miles from Summerton in a stand of trees. He would have missed her as he rode on blindly, except he caught sight of a vulture waddling on the ground. Then another and yet another.

  He eased the horse down to a walk and pointed it towards the ugly looking black birds. Once off the trail, he dismounted and took a number of lurching steps.

  Savage walked onward, an invisible hand pushing him unwittingly forward. From deep within, his dread began to rise. Something told him to stop but he knew that he had to see, needed to know.

  In a small patch of clear ground, he saw Amy’s white, naked body in stark contrast against the black of the huddled vultures.

  The Remington roared twice before Savage realized that it was in his hand. The sickening carrion eaters took flight and he could now see the body more clearly.

  He took a few more paces forward then fell to his knees. He looked to the heavens and screamed, “No!”

  The pain he felt in his chest was entirely different to the bullet he’d taken in ’64. This felt like he was being torn apart.

  He stared at the body of his wife once more then leaned forward and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

  ~*~

  Amy Savage was buried three days later, beneath a cloudless sky in the Summerton cemetery. It was a small service. Though Amy had been well liked in the community, it was apparent that there was a certain element in Summerton unable or unprepared to forget that her husband had been a federal cavalry captain. Even Amy’s parents had felt the same way but the need to farewell to their only daughter had been stronger and they couldn’t stay away.

  After the service, Savage saddled his horse and bought supplies from the grocer. Once finished there, he walked along to the gunsmith’s shop where he bought ammunition for the Winchester and the Remington He also purchased another Remington six-gun which he wrapped in an oilskin cloth and placed in his saddlebags.