Hang Him Twice Read online

  By then Dooley was sliding underneath the coach.

  He slid across the ice and reached out, snatching the handle of the .44. Briefly, he thought about going for the whip, but Dooley had not much practice with a whip, and only a fool would bring a whip into a gunfight.

  His hand came up, thumbing back the hammer and finding a target. He saw two. Unfortunately, those two had found him, and Dooley stared into the barrels of a cut-down, sawed-off shotgun in one hand, and the barrel of a Henry rifle in another gunman’s arms.

  Dooley had the Remington, though, and he pulled the trigger.

  The hammer gave an antagonizing click.

  He had no time to cock the .44 again.

  The outlaw with the shotgun smiled. Then the sack covering his face disappeared in an explosion of carnage, and the one working the lever on the Henry rifle groaned and spun and fell to his knees, stood up, staggered a few paces, and fell to the ground, rolled over, and lay spread-eagled on the bloody snow.

  Above Dooley, standing in the driver’s box of the mud wagon, Chester Motz laughed.

  “Idiots!” Dooley thought he heard the old man singing. “Y’all ferget ’bout the shotgun on the roof or ’em loads Dooley dropped in the box?”

  Dooley saw the gunman that Blue had mauled as he ran for one of the horses that had not skedaddled. He thumbed back the hammer on the Remington, carefully aimed, and squeezed the trigger only to hear another click. He tried again. Click.

  By then, the man with the mauled left arm had caught up a buckskin mare and was trying to pull himself into the saddle as the horse took off at a good lope down the Arkansas River fork. Dooley looked at the jehu.

  “Shoot him!” Dooley yelled. “I’m empty.”

  Chester Motz stared down at Dooley and spit tobacco juice into the ice. “Well, give me some shells, boy. They’s in yer coat pocket. I can’t shoot nothin’ with no empty gun no better’n you can, you cur of a whippersnapper who thinks he knows ever’thing.”

  Cody had stepped around the wagon, too, and slowly opened the chamber gate to Dooley’s Colt and began plunging the empty cartridges onto the ice.

  “A bully good show,” Cody said.

  “But that one’s getting away,” Dooley said.

  “Indeed,” Buffalo Bill agreed. “And after the mauling your loyal pooch laid on him, I dare say he might well remember my advice from earlier. That crime never pays, and when men use poor judgment to try their hands at nefarious, evil schemes to make their fortune on ill-gotten gains, hell is bound to break loose.”

  He began feeding fresh loads into the cylinder and smiled up at Chester Motz.

  “A jolly fine show, sir. The way you dispatched those evildoers with the shotgun.”

  Motz grinned and shrugged in something that looked like embarrassment. “Well, ’tweren’t nothin’ much. They was standin’ too close to each other, and I give ’em both barrels.”

  Dooley shook his head, and moved, glanced at General Grant to make sure he was safe and still secured behind the coach, and then picked up the Henry rifle the dead man had dropped and stepped across the wagon tongue on the other side of the road.

  “Maybe we can catch the leader. He doesn’t have pistol or carbine.”

  “But,” Cody said, “he has a horse. I heard its hooves crashing through the verdant and white forest as he rode away.”

  Dooley swore, and butted the Henry in the ice.

  That’s when the adrenaline left him, and he felt himself beginning to shake. He squeezed the barrel of the Henry tighter and looked at the battleground. Buffalo Bill Cody had killed two of the outlaws with pistol shots. Chester Motz had blown away two more with the Parker ten-gauge. The man whose left arm had been ripped had gotten away and ridden down the river. The leader had found his horse in the woods and fled for, as the folks liked to say, parts unknown.

  Dooley saw no horses, just General Grant still behind the mud wagon, acting as calm as though this kind of thing was as natural as getting a rubdown in a quality livery stable. Of course, gunfights did seem to follow Dooley Monahan on regular schedules.

  “Their horses took off,” Dooley said.

  “So did my mules.”

  Dooley spit the bitter taste out of his mouth.

  “Undoubtedly, the animals are well on their way to Leadville,” Buffalo Bill said. “I suggest that we follow them.”

  “Walk?” Dooley complained. No self-respecting cowboy would walk across a street if he could ride.

  “We do have one horse,” Chester Motz said.

  “Riding double in this country is unwise,” Buffalo Bill said. “Riding triple is insanity.”

  “No,” the old man said. “No, I’ll take that fine hoss into Leadville. Tell the law what has happened. Bring back some buckboards and blankets, and maybe even the yellerbacks who calls ’emselves vigilantes will show gumption to get a posse after those bad hombres who got away.”

  “It’s my horse,” Dooley said.

  “Yeah. But nobody knows you, youngster, in Leadville. They might just shoot you dead. I’ll take your hoss, sonny, and you and Buffalo Bill rest here. If it starts a-snowin’ agin, well, you can stay warm in the mud wagon. Blue there . . . he’ll keep your feet warm.”

  Dooley frowned.

  “Can you bring back a bottle of rye whiskey?” Buffalo Bill asked.

  “Sure, Colonel. Sure.” Dooley watched the old man as he moved to the rear of the coach. Blue growled again, and General Grant laid his ears back in an aggressive reaction, but Dooley said, “It’s all right, gents. It’s all right.”

  After the old man eased into the saddle and backed the horse away from the coach, he leaned forward and smiled. “You boys done good. It was a pleasure to have men of your ilk and backbone riding in ol’ For’. Ain’t but a hoot an a holler to Leadville from here. I’ll be back with the law, grub, blankets and the undertaker—and a bottle or two of rye—before dark comes down again. That I promise you.” He shook both hands and kicked General Grant into a trot, moving around the dead bodies, and disappeared around the bend.

  Blue whimpered, but Dooley picked up the dog, stroked his back, and eased him into the mud wagon, closing the canvas windows behind him but not before he fetched Buffalo Bill’s Winchester rifle off the floor.

  “This,” he said, “was covered with a blanket. Guess that’s why the outlaws did not steal it.”

  “I put it there,” Buffalo Bill said, “when I realized we were being waylaid by ruffians.”

  Dooley frowned. “Well, you could’ve opened fire, got the drop on them.”

  “And gotten you and Chester shot dead in the prime of your manhood.” Cody’s head shook. “And remember, I have only one round chambered.”

  Dooley handed Buffalo Bill the Remington.

  “And none,” he said, “in your revolver.”

  After Cody took the .44 and shoved it into the holster on his hip, he said, “Silver Plume,” he said, “is an expensive town.”

  Dooley’s head bobbed in understanding. “I think the whole state of Colorado is pricey.”

  “Ah.” Cody now turned. “But methinks we might have a way to earn a few dollars.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Buffalo Bill reached the man who had taken most of the blast from Chester Motz’s shotgun.

  “Well.” Cody knelt and did not bother trying to remove what was left of the wheat sack. “Perhaps there will be some sort of identification on his person.”

  Dooley understood, and he went to the second man. The bandanna covering his face had slid off, but Dooley didn’t recognize him.

  “I don’t know him,” he said.

  “Did you expect to?” Buffalo Bill Cody asked.

  “No . . .” But Dooley stopped and studied on a few things. “Well . . .”

  Something troubled him. He decided to talk things out.

  “Well, Mr. Cody . . .”

  “Call me, Colonel, son,” Buffalo Bill said.

  “Well, Colonel, the leader of the gang.
He had to know something about me. Maybe not my name, but he . . . you might find this hard to believe . . . but, well, sir, he ambushed me in Denver City. I know that because I was certain I winged him in his arm. And that fellow he had a bandage wrapped around his arm. Here. Just above the left wrist. And he dropped his rifle in the alley. In Denver, I mean. And his saddle . . . the one he was forking today . . . well, the scabbard was empty.”

  What Dooley couldn’t figure out was . . .

  He figured it out.

  “Son of a gun. Now I know. He tried to gun me down outside of the saloon in Denver because he wants the mine I won.” He looked down at the dead man again. “First he tried to shoot me down in Denver. He must have been spying on that game the whole time.”

  He closed his eyes and tried to think, tried to remember those who had been in the saloon. No faces came to him, except that of the saloon girl who kept his drinks coming—she sure was a pretty thing—and then he saw the faces of the men playing poker with him. But those men had been inside the saloon when Dooley had walked out. He tried harder, but the saloon had been fairly crowded and mostly he remembered a bunch of black hats, brown hats, heavy coats, heavy boots, mustaches that were black and red and brown and gray and blond and salt-and-pepper, and suspenders and plaid shirts. No faces. Nothing that looked like the gent lying in front of him, deader than all get-out.

  Dooley closed the dead man’s eyes. It’s one thing to look down at a dead man. It’s another altogether to have a dead man staring at you.

  He had not recognized anyone he’d seen in Denver. He spit and pushed himself to his feet. Buffalo Bill Cody had moved to the other man. The colonel sure had a strange way of trying to learn a dead bandit’s identity. He pulled out pocket watches and crumpled dollar bills and coins, an ancient pocketknife, and a nice pocketknife . . . and these he shoved into the deep pockets of his fancy coat. Then Buffalo Bill moved to the last corpse.

  “You understand what I’m saying?” Dooley said as he squatted near the last dead outlaw and the famous frontiersman.

  “I do indeed,” Cody said as he shoved a double eagle into another pocket.

  “The fellow in charge was after the deed to the mine.”

  Cody looked up, his dark eyes suddenly focusing on Dooley.

  “A mine?”

  Dooley nodded.

  “In Leadville?”

  “Yes, sir. Old Horatio Whitman had it.”

  “I see,” Cody said.

  “And the leader of these ruffians knew I had it. That’s why he picked this coach to rob.” Dooley studied on that and shook his head. “But why didn’t he just shoot me and Chester off the stage? Come to us and fetch the deed that way?”

  Cody smiled that knowing smile an older man might give his kid. “The shot could have hit the deed. You could have fallen into the coach, and the coach carried you on to Leadville. You could have fallen into a river, cracked through the frozen ice, and swept into the frigid waters of the brutal Rubicon and not been recovered till summer . . . hundreds of miles downstream. You could have . . .”

  “I get the general idea, Colonel,” Dooley told him.

  “There’s nothing to identify these men,” Cody said as he rose, the coins and knife and odds and ends jingling inside the scout’s pockets. “Perhaps the posse members or the undertaker will recognize them when they arrive.”

  “He’s right-handed,” Dooley said.

  “Who’s right-handed?” Buffalo Bill asked.

  “The captain of these rogues.” Dooley waved his arm over the two nearest corpses. “With a bullet wound in his left arm.” Dooley tapped his own forearm. “Here.”

  Dooley tried to remember other details about the villain, but Buffalo Bill showed that he had a good memory, too. Well, it should not have come as a surprise. After all, the legendary scout had been busy these recent years acting on theater stages across the country, playing himself in action-packed melodramas with Texas Jack and Wild Bill and Captain Jack and Ned Buntline himself.

  “A green mackinaw, plaid as most mackinaws, with leather trim,” Cody said. “Tan hat. Yellow wild rag. But he’ll dispose of all his clothes. And he shall have no need of the gun rig he wore as he dropped the Smith & Wesson when he fled like the craven coward he truly is.” Cody nodded at the silver weapon in the ice.

  “There’s his horse,” Dooley said.

  “Which he will sell to an unsuspecting miner far off in the hills, take the money, and buy or steal a new horse.”

  Dooley frowned.

  “The only thing that can identify him, to you,” Buffalo Bill explained, “is the bullet wound in his left arm, just above the wrist.” Buffalo Bill did the tapping now. “Here.”

  Dooley sighed. A body couldn’t go around Leadville and the Rocky Mountains asking men to tug up their sleeves.

  “Well . . .”

  Cody rose. “Son, we shall split the reward three ways.”

  Dooley sighed. He didn’t care much about collecting bounties on dead men—none of which he had killed.

  “I don’t like the idea of having a man I can’t identify gunning for me,” Dooley said.

  Buffalo Bill laughed. “Son,” he said, “he has no reason to gun you down. Not anymore. He has the deed to the mine. Remember?”

  That didn’t make Dooley feel any better.

  * * *

  They dragged the bodies underneath the coach. Then they waited.

  Noon came, and passed.

  They waited.

  About the time the sun seemed to be saying it was right around three o’clock, Dooley asked, “How well do you know Mr. Motz?”

  Buffalo Bill laughed. “Well, he’s not a bosom comrade or blood kin, or a man I would trust my life with, but he is a fine individual, honest as the day is long, and I do trust him. Not with money. Not with a horse.”

  Dooley did not like that at all. General Grant happened to be the best horse he had ever owned, and, well, he started rehearing that fellow back in Denver telling him—and within Chester Motz’s earshot—just how much a horse like that would fetch in Denver.

  On the other hand, the old jehu had ridden off in the direction of Leadville—not back to Denver—but then a man of his years probably knew all the trails that a man could follow that would take him back to Denver.

  “He won’t steal your horse, son,” Buffalo Bill said reassuringly.

  Dooley did not answer.

  “Chester loves this wagon more than life itself. He’ll be back for it. Trust me.”

  Two hours later, Buffalo Bill Cody was not laughing anymore. He was pacing back and forth, while Dooley sat on the ground, bracing his back against the front wheel, rubbing Blue’s winter coat.

  “Well, this breaks all bonds,” Cody said, and he started walking down the trail, but stopped and came back to the coach. “No. It is too late to start the arduous journey afoot to Leadville. We might freeze to death, caught out in the open, in the elements.” He lifted his head and gazed at the sky. “And this weather portends of . . .” Cody shivered.

  They spent the night in the coach, canvas curtains and doors closed, huddling together and relying on the warmth of Blue.

  It proved to be a miserable night.

  The wind blew, moaning through the canvas and cheap wood and nails, bolts and glue that held this contraption Chester Motz called a wagon together. The wind also kept changing directions, popping one canvas curtain and then another. Every now and then a mighty gust would lift the wagon off two wheels, and Dooley’s eyes would pop open and he’d brace himself for the mud wagon to be turned over and over and over. Only the gust would die as quickly as it started and the stagecoach would light down and rock like a sickening cradle until finally settling on the ice.

  That’s when Dooley would relax his muscles and quit grinding his teeth and learn how to breathe again.

  All the while the wind was blowing, the coach teetered on the precipice and Dooley prayed that he would not soil his britches, Blue snored peacefully, and Buffalo
Bill Cody snored, too, only not so peacefully.

  The famed frontiersmen snorted like a pig, or maybe a locomotive, snorting and chugging and groaning.

  Even when the wind didn’t blow like a sailor, Buffalo Bill Cody snored. Dooley snapped at him, kicked at him, and elbowed him in the ribs, but it made no difference. He would stop, though, and Dooley would sigh, thinking now he might be able to catch some shut-eye—unless the wind happened to be turning into a regular gale at the time—and Dooley would close his eyes and try to will himself into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  Only Cody would start that infernal racket once more.

  That was just the noise. The cold was the real killer. Now, Dooley Monahan had cowboyed across the Western frontier, and before that he had farmed in Iowa, and neither the Hawkeye State nor the woolly, wildest West, could match the cold of the Rockies just outside of Leadville, Colorado. Canvas curtains and doors did little to keep out the wind, or that biting, numbing cold.

  Blue kept his feet warm, and Buffalo Bill had that long, fur-trimmed heavy coat—made even heavier from all the plunder the scout had plucked off the dead outlaws—and he seemed to be oblivious to the subzero temperatures. Blue was a dog. Dogs never got cold, in Dooley’s estimation. Yet Dooley was no dog and had no fancy thespian’s coat. He shivered. He shook. He wondered how a body felt just before he froze to death.

  Eventually, after a nightmarish eternity, the winds started to die down, and the temperatures began to warm. The coach stopped rocking. Dooley felt the coming of dawn and realized he had survived the night.

  Somehow, his eyes managed to close, and he imagined that the canvas sack of flour to be the most luxurious pillow in the swankiest hotel in San Francisco. His clothes were a downy comforter. Blue’s fur was a foot warmer. Bill Cody was two thousand miles away, playing in a Bowery dime theater in New York State. He could dream.

  Cody barked, spat, and stamped his boots on the coach’s rickety floor to get the blood circulating again. Blue whined and began dreaming that he was running after a rabbit, his paws scratching against the floor. The colonel farted, burped, snorted again, and opened the canvas that served as the mud wagon’s door.