Drifter 1 Page 4

  Savage was about to climb into the saddle when Ira showed.

  “Are you leavin’?” he asked.

  Savage said nothing.

  “You’re goin’ after them ain’t you?”

  “What do you think?” Savage snapped. “They killed my wife and it’s my fault.”

  “How do you figure that Son?” Ira asked. “You weren’t even here. There was nothin’ you could have done.”

  “Not true,” Savage said. “Back in ’64 we were in the Shenandoah and so was Carver. I was tasked with stoppin’ him and his raiders. We caught up with ’em and set up an ambush. We wiped out most of them except for a handful. And Carver was one of them. Son of a bitch put a bullet in me and got away. So you see, it is my fault.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for what happened in the war.”

  “Well, I aim to make amends for it,” Savage assured the old timer. “I’ll hunt him down and make him pay. You just wait and see.”

  “But you don’t even know where they were headed,” Ira pointed out.

  Savage thought for a moment then nodded. “You’re right. But I know someone who does.”

  “What? Who?”

  But Savage had already turned and was walking towards the jail, leading his horse.

  When he entered he found the young deputy, Billy Peters, sitting behind the desk. He was still recovering from his wounds but was determined to continue in a limited capacity and not overdo it. The town had hired someone to help out while he was laid up.

  Peters stood up slowly when Savage walked through the door and greeted him. “Mr. Savage, how can I help?”

  “I want to talk to your prisoner,” Savage told him.

  Peters hesitated then said, “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

  “I ain’t askin’, I’m tellin’. I’m goin’ to talk to your prisoner.”

  Savage crossed to the rear of the room and the door through to the cells . He paused and removed a key from a hook beside the door then kept going.

  “Wait,” Peters protested. “You can’t go back there.”

  Ira and the deputy followed Savage through in time to see him open the door of the cell.

  The outlaw looked at him curiously. “What do you want?”

  “What’s your name?” Savage asked.

  The man stood up favoring his right shoulder and side. “What’s it to you?”

  The fact that the man was injured had not gone unnoticed by Savage and his left fist shot out and hit the man a solid blow in the wounded region.

  The outlaw screamed and staggered back.

  “Hey,” Peters’ voice rose incredulously. “You can’t …”

  He never finished because Savage had drawn his Remington which was now pointed at the young man.

  “Shut down,” Savage hissed. “This feller and his friends were responsible for the death of my wife. So I will deal with him as I see fit.”

  Peters paled noticeably but remained silent.

  “Take it easy, Savage,” Ira cautioned.

  Savage turned back to the ashen-faced outlaw and placed the muzzle of the six-gun against his left thigh.

  “Now, what is your name?”

  “Donnie Gardner,” he gasped out.

  Savage nodded. “Where is Carver headed?”

  Gardner smiled coldly. “I don’t know.”

  The Remington crashed and the outlaw fell to the cell floor, grasping his leg and screaming loudly.

  “What the hell?” shouted Peters who made to step forward.

  Savage whirled about and slammed the cell door shut. He reached through the bars and turned the key so the door locked. Then he took the key from the lock and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Open the door, Savage.” Peters snapped.

  Savage ignored him and returned to where Gardner lay clutching his bloody leg. This time, he placed the gun against the man’s head. “Let’s try again. Where is Carver goin’?”

  “Son of a bitch, I don’t know,” he hissed through the pain.

  The Remington’s hammer ratcheted back.

  “No wait!” he cried out. “I told you I don’t know. They were goin’ to split up.”

  “You must know somethin’? Talk.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Savage pressed the cold barrel of the six-gun harder against his head. “Wait! Buckley. Ross said somethin’ about goin’ to Buckley.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it, honest.”

  “What about names?” Savage said. “Give me names.”

  Without hesitation, Gardner told Savage the names of the other outlaws.

  Satisfied, he let down the hammer on the Remington and holstered it. He unlocked the door and opened it to leave.

  There was a murmur from Gardner and Savage turned and locked him in an icy stare. “What did you say?”

  “I said I bet they had some fun with her before they killed her.”

  Savage stared at the sinister smile on the outlaw’s face and without even a blink, drew the Remington once more and shot the gloating Gardner between the eyes.

  As the echo of the shot died away and the two stunned men who’d been witnesses remained silent. Savage holstered his gun and brushed past them as he exited. He walked through the open door and out into the office.

  Without stopping, he made for the front door and had just opened it when Peters stopped him.

  “Hold it, Savage,” he ordered, his voice full of authority. “I’m arrestin’ you for murder.”

  Savage gave him a withering glare and said, “You what?”

  “I’m arrestin’ you. You can’t just shoot a man like that and expect to walk out of here.”

  Savage snorted derisively. “Go and play sheriff somewhere else kid. I’m leavin’ and you ain’t goin’ to stop me. Besides, somebody has to show some spine and stop Carver.”

  Peters wanted to go on with it but the doorway was empty. He hurried across to the chair at the desk, took out his six-gun from its holster and followed Savage out the door.

  Savage was climbing into the saddle and Peters thumbed back the hammer and aimed it.

  “I told you to stop, Savage,” he shouted.

  Townsfolk stopped to stare at the spectacle playing out before them. A murmur ran through the onlookers.

  Savage ignored him and turned the horse away and started to ride off.

  The gun hammer went back to full cock. “I said stop!”

  A calloused hand reached out and pushed the barrel of the gun down.

  “Let him go, Son,” Ira said softly. “He deserves his chance at Carver. He’ll find him.”

  Peters nodded, gave Savage one last glance, turned around and walked back inside.

  “And God help him when he does,” Ira murmured.

  Five

  CLEMENTINE SLIPPED quietly out of bed and padded across the room. Through the window, the moonlight cast a silvery glow which gave her white skin luminosity.

  Somewhere in the town, a dog barked at an unseen disturbance.

  The man in her bed snuffled, snorted, and settled. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. This wasn’t the first time she’d riffled a client’s pockets. And if he woke up, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been caught.

  Clint Ross coughed, rolled over on the lumpy mattress and settled once more.

  Clementine picked up the outlaw’s pants and started going through his pockets. The left one contained a few coins and the right was much of the same.

  She dropped the trousers and grabbed Ross’ jacket. She found what she was looking for in his right pocket. A large roll of paper money. She took it out and smiled broadly and the moonlight glinted off her even teeth.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Ross snarled.

  Clementine jumped and dropped the money.

  “I … I …,” she stammered. “Nothin’. I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”

  Ross climbed out of bed in his underwear and stood up. Even though he was a
shade under six-feet tall, at that moment, to Clementine he looked unnaturally tall.

  “Lyin’ bitch,” he spat. “You were tryin’ to rob me.”

  Clementine backed up, shaking her head vigorously. “No. No, I wasn’t. Honest.”

  But Ross was beyond reason and he advanced on her with his six-gun in his fist. He had blood in his eye and was determined to teach Clementine a lesson.

  Before he reached her, the screams started and filled the top floor of the Golden Garter saloon.

  ~*~

  The proprietor of the Golden Garter, Ernie West was ripped violently from his slumber by piercing shrieks from along the hall. He rolled from his bed and shook off the vestiges of sleep that dulled his brain.

  He scooped up a small .36 caliber pocket Navy revolver and charged from his room into the lamp-lit hall. Already a group of working girls had gathered outside their rooms and one, a buxom girl named Lilly, rushed up to him.

  “He’s killin’ her,” she blurted out. “He’s killin’ Clementine. You gotta do somethin’.”

  “The stupid bitch was probably tryin’ to roll him,” another girl snorted. “She’s probably gettin’ what she deserves.”

  “Shut up Esther,” Lilly snapped and turned her attention back to West. “Do somethin’.”

  The crash of breaking furniture and more screams spurred West into action. He charged along the hallway to Clementine’s room. He tried the knob but the door was locked. He took a step back and brought his bare foot up and drove it hard against the door.

  The jam splintered with a dry crack and the door crashed back revealing Ross standing over Clementine where she cowered in the far corner of the room.

  West stepped into the doorway and leveled his gun. “Hey! Stop that.”

  Ross whirled, brought up his own gun and squeezed the trigger. The small room rocked with the fiery discharge and the slug hit the saloon owner dead center. The impact threw him backward across the hall where he crashed against the wall, and slid to the floor, leaving a bloody trail that shone in the lamplight.

  Lilly rushed forward and knelt beside her dead boss. She looked around futilely.

  “Somebody help us!” she screamed.

  That was when the unshaven stranger, wearing only blue cavalry pants and carrying a .44 Remington, appeared.

  ~*~

  It was after dark when Savage had ridden his weary bay into Buckley. He’d been on the trail, riding hard for five days and both he and his horse were about done in. He’d put up the mare at the livery and find a meal and bed for the night. If the man he was looking for was here, he’d still be here first thing in the morning.

  The evening was cool and cloudless. Above the town, a large moon hung in a web of winking stars. The main street was lit by intermittently spaced lamplight.

  Savage rode past the false-fronted sheriff’s office and tucked its location away in his mind for the morning. He also made out the local gunsmith, general store, bank, telegraph office, hotel, and the Golden Garter. The latter was a bevy of activity.

  He was starting to think he may have missed the livery when it loomed up on his left on the far side of town.

  It was a large barn-style affair with double doors. The doors were still open and a kerosene lantern hung on a nail driven into an upright post.

  Savage dismounted and led the bay inside.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  A balding man in his forties stuck his head around the corner of a stall and said, “Be right with you stranger.”

  When the man reappeared he said, “Sorry about that, I got a horse back there is gettin’ ready to foal. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Need a stall for the night.”

  The livery man nodded. “Sure, I can do that Mr. … ?”

  “Savage.”

  “Sure, Mr. Savage. I’m Henley by the way,” he said introducing himself. “It’ll cost you four bits for the stall.”

  “What about feed?” Savage asked.

  “All included.”

  After the mare was settled into a clean stall, Savage looked at Henley and asked, “Are there any strangers in town? Maybe come in over the past few days?”

  Henley studied him carefully. “You lookin’ for anyone in particular?”

  “Feller called Ross.”

  Henley thought for a moment then shook his head. “Nope, name don’t ring a bell. Friend of yours?”

  “Not hardly.”

  Savage scooped up the Winchester and his saddlebags and turned to walk away when Henley stopped him.

  “Mind you,” he said, “I don’t get every stranger’s name who comes in. I know of four strangers in town but not all of ’em gave me a name. Add to that I only do evenin’s here so if they came in through the day then I wouldn’t see ’em. You might try sheriff Miller, though, he’s usually on top of these things.”

  “Obliged,” said Savage and kept walking.

  ~*~

  Savage pushed through the door at the hotel and walked across uneven floorboards to the counter. He picked up a small bell from the polished counter top and gave it a sharp ring.

  A bleary-eyed man came from a small back room and Savage guessed that he’d interrupted the man’s evening nap.

  “Can I get a room?” Savage inquired.

  The clerk looked at him and gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry stranger but we’re full up.”

  Savage gave the clerk a suspicious look which made the man a little nervous and he shuffled his feet.

  “Do you know where I might find somethin’ else?”

  “The Golden Garter might have something, sir,” he suggested.

  Even though he was dubious about it all, Savage surmised that it would be better than nothing. Without another word he turned and left.

  Once outside, he followed the boardwalk until he found the suggested establishment. The noise that greeted Savage made him think twice before entering.

  He shook his head then walked through the doors and into a smoke-filled room with dull light cast from lamps hanging on rough plank walls.

  As Savage bellied-up to the bar, a bearded barkeep came down to greet him. “What’ll it be, Stranger?”

  “Whiskey.”

  The barkeep nodded and moved along the bar to find an open bottle. While the man was gone, Savage looked around the room. Most of the tables were occupied. Some men played cards while others bought drinks for the ladies who laughed gaily.

  A man caught his eye and gave him an unhappy look. Then Savage remembered that he still wore cavalry pants. And at this time in Texas, it would be a sore point indeed.

  When the barkeep walked back, he reached below the scarred counter and grabbed a shot-glass. He popped the cork and slopped the amber liquid into the glass then corked the bottle.

  Putting some change on the bar, Savage asked, “Have you got a room for the night?”

  “All the rooms are for the girls,” he was informed.

  Savage put up some more money and the barkeep stared at him for a time before he said, “I reckon we might be able to find you somethin’. The name is Ernie West, I own the saloon.”

  “Jeff Savage,” he said, offering his name.

  “What brings you to Buckley?” West asked.

  “I’m lookin’ for someone,” Savage informed him. “Goes by the name of Clint Ross. Heard the name mentioned lately?”

  West nodded. “Sure.”

  A surge of anticipation buzzed within Savage and he asked, “Do you know where I might find him?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea,” West answered. “I haven’t seen him since early on. But he won’t have gone far.”

  “Why’s that?” Savage asked, in an attempt to conceal his disappointment.

  “He’s got a good roll of money on him,” West elaborated. “In my experience, he won’t be leavin’ town until it’s all gone.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Well, that and the fact he’s got a friend here.”

  The feeling cam
e back. “Where?”

  West just shrugged.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Don’t worry Savage. If they come in here tomorrow, I’ll let ’em know you’re lookin’ for them.”

  “No!” Savage snapped. “Don’t tell ’em anythin’.”

  West frowned. “Why not?”

  After tossing back the drink, Savage said pragmatically, “Because if Ross is who I think he is, I aim to kill him.”

  ~*~

  The room was small and smelled musty. Savage moved over to the window and opened it a fraction to let in some fresh air.

  The mattress on the iron-framed bed was lumpy but that didn’t worry Savage. He removed his shirt to reveal a well sculpted, if somewhat hairy torso with a purple, puckered bullet scar on his chest.

  The cavalry boots went in the corner beneath a rickety chair and the gun belt with the Remington was looped over the bed post.

  Before he lay down, Savage took the saddlebags from his bed and dumped them on the chair then leaned the Winchester against it too.

  The effects of the whiskey and days of hard travel took their toll and Savage lay on top of the bed and within moments a soft snore filled the room.

  ~*~

  Screaming dragged Savage from the depths of sleep. Ear-piercing shrieks came from one of the other rooms.

  “Amy!” he cried out as he came awake, then remembered where he was.

  There was a man’s voice as well as the woman’s screams. An angry voice. Then Savage heard another voice. A woman’s this time, more urgent and quite frantic.

  As the fog in Savage’s mind cleared he heard another man’s voice. This one he recognized as West, the saloon owner. The gunshot that sounded next was followed by screams for help.

  This time, his reaction was automatic and Savage came off the bed and took the Remington from the holster. He opened the door and stepped into the hall to see a whore on her knees beside an obviously dead West.

  Lilly looked up at Savage and though the light in the hallway was dim, the glisten of tears on her cheeks was unmistakable.

  “Help us please Mister,” she begged. “Otherwise, he’ll kill Clementine. He’s already gone and killed Ernie.”

  Grim-faced, Savage thumbed back the hammer on the Remington and stepped into the open doorway. The man stood over a cowering woman in the corner with his hand raised to strike again.