Silver gulch feud, p.1
Silver Gulch Feud, page 1
Silver Gulch Feud
Scott Connor
Published by Culbin Press, 2020.
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First published in 2004 by Robert Hale Limited
Copyright © 2004, 2020 by Scott Connor
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
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Chapter One
WITH HIS SHOULDERS slumped, Yick Lee stood on the boardwalk outside the town marshal’s office. Toward the end of another oppressively hot day in Silver Creek, the only sounds interrupting his torpor were the steady buzz of flies and the rattle of the heavy wagons trundling over unyielding rocky ground.
Two miners walked past Lee, their heads cocked to one side. As soon as Lee nodded to them, they scurried away. Today, Lee had applied for seven jobs: two stable boys, two clerks and three ranch hands.
Although Lee was available to start work immediately and each place had a desperate need, he remained unemployed. Despite these setbacks, Lee forced himself to adopt the welcoming smile that he’d promised he’d present to the world, whatever the world presented to him, and moved toward the office door.
He placed the blanket, his sole possession aside from his clothes, over his right shoulder, pushed the door open and strode inside. Marshal Brown sat behind his desk. He noted Lee with a cold flash of his narrowed eyes. Then he hunched over the playing cards he’d arranged in a convoluted pattern on his desk.
“I’ve told you before, go away,” he said, his voice low and bored.
Lee gritted his teeth and shook his head. “I’ve never met you before, sir.”
Still keeping his head down, Brown yawned and gestured at the door with a casual wave.
“I’m still not interested. I don’t get involved in your disputes. Sort it out on your own.”
Lee frowned. “I’ve no dispute to bring to your attention, sir. I’ve come about your notice.”
Brown picked up two cards and tapped them against his chin, and then sighed long and hard. He threw down his cards and leaned back in his chair. With a long finger, he pushed his Stetson back on his head and smiled. Although his cheeks creased around the lips, the eyes stayed cold.
“Let’s have it. Which one of my wanted men have you seen? If the information is worth anything, I’ll pay – after I have the man behind bars.”
Lee widened his smile. “No, sir, I have no information on wanted men, yet. I mean your notice advertising for a deputy town marshal. I have come to apply.”
“You can’t be serious,” Brown said with a pronounced gulp.
Lee edged forward a pace. “I am. According to my sources, you have had no applicants, and your notice says that you’ll decide at sundown tonight.”
Brown turned to the window with a lopsided grin on his face.
“I’m sorry. You aren’t what I’m looking for in a deputy.”
“What are you looking for?”
Brown chewed his bottom lip and snorted. Many others in Silver Creek had told Lee to his face what they were looking for – and put politely, that wasn’t Lee. The only job the likes of Yick Lee could do were the invisible jobs – mining dangerous tunnels, shoveling excrement and anything else that no one wanted to do. As Marshal Brown was a man of the law, Lee hoped that a nugget of decency rested in him.
“Look, Mr. . . . What is your name?”
With a huge grin, Lee held out a hand. “My name is Yick Lee – but I prefer Lee. I’m pleased to meet you, Marshal Brown.”
Brown ignored the hand and turned to the window again.
“Mr. Lee, I want you to heed this. This is a tough mining town. The men who ride into Silver Creek come from the Silver Gulch mine, and they’re as rough as you’ll find anywhere. When they finish their shifts they want to unwind, and that calls for plenty of drinking and whoring and fighting. Things can get mighty rowdy.”
As he slipped his hand behind his back, Lee nodded.
“I know.”
“I need a man that can handle drunken behavior, a man that can let hard-working miners unwind, but will stop them getting too violent.” Brown pointed at Lee. “Mr. Lee, I ask you, is that man likely to be a . . . to be someone as short as you?”
Lee sighed. The miners prided themselves on working hard and playing hard, but in the mine they didn’t work such long shifts as the Asians and they didn’t have such hard and cramped seams to dig as his people.
“I’ve worked down the mine,” he said, showing Brown his work-roughened hands. He set his squat legs wide apart. “I’m tough enough.”
Brown frowned. “I need a man who can ride well.”
Lee’s grin returned in amazement that Brown was giving him a chance.
“That’s me.”
Brown pointed at Lee’s waist. “You’re not packing a gun. Can you shoot well enough to fight off the sort of troublemakers we get in Silver Creek?”
“I owned a gun before I was a miner. I’m a good shot.”
“I don’t know,” Brown said with his frown deepening.
“Give me a chance. That’s all I ask. I won’t disappoint you.”
For long moments Brown tapped his chin. Then, with a sigh, he shuffled around on his chair and moved a card an inch to the right.
“I’ll think on it, when all the applications are in.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Yeah,” Brown said.
Lee pointed at the door. “I’ll do my waiting outside, if that’s all right?”
With a cough, Brown slid another card to the side and rested his chin on an upturned hand, so Lee headed outside and leaned on the wall. He slid back down to sit on the boardwalk by the door.
He slipped his blanket under him and shuffled down, seeking some comfort on the hard wood. From out of the cloudless sky the sun blasted down. Lee yawned and closed his eyes.
Although he wanted to stay awake, he hadn’t eaten that day and within seconds, his eyelids became heavy. He rested his chin on his knees and closed his eyes. A timeless period later a blast of gunfire from outside the Hot Silver saloon awoke Lee.
He stretched and yawned. It was twilight, the first tendrils of the evening chill slipping under his blanket. With a last huge yawn, Lee pushed to his feet. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and shuffled into the marshal’s office.
Inside, Brown was pottering around. He moved a rifle from one locker to another, and then moved it back. For a minute Lee waited and then coughed, but Brown then examined his display of Wanted posters.
“It is after sundown, Marshal Brown,” Lee said. “I have returned to hear your decision.”
For a long time, Brown continued to face the posters and then lowered his head. He shook it, sighing and turned to Lee. In his left hand he cradled his right elbow and raised his right hand to hold his chin.
“Mr. . . . Mr. . . . .”
“Lee.”
Brown nodded and rubbed his chin. “Mr. Lee, I have a problem with employing you and I’d be dishonest if I didn’t tell you the truth.”
“Go on.”
Brown sighed. “I have no problem with you, but many people in Silver Creek will have. Seeing a Chinese man with a deputy’s badge will cause trouble. People will pick fights with you, and the role of the law is to reduce trouble, not to generate it.”
“The danger is to me, and I don’t shy from trouble.”
With a harsh chuckle, Brown smiled. “You’d get plenty of practice. Trouble would find you, pretty darn fast.”
“Maybe I will attract trouble, but I say I can handle myself and I can prove it. I can only do that if you give me the chance.”
Brown shook his head. “My answer is still no.”
Lee turned, his head lowered, his shoulders slumped from more than just fatigue. He shuffled two paces toward the door and then smiled to himself and stopped. He turned back and edged forward a short pace.
“Have any other applicants come forward?”
Brown winced, so Lee bit his bottom lip as he fought to suppress the faint hope that hit him and threatened to blossom. Brown rocked his head from side to side. Then Lee smelled something stale and he turned.
A grimed and hulking cowhand stood in the doorway. Beneath the grime, the cowhand was young-faced, but thick-set, and from the dust coating his threadbare clothes, he looked as though he’d been on the trail for many weeks.
Brown appraised the cowhand. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Carter Lyle, sir,” the newcomer said. “Are you the marshal of this here town?”
“I am.”
With a gleaming smile, Carter whistled through his teeth.
“Then this sure is my lucky day. I heard that you is looking for a deputy.”
Lee sighed. As he expected, a grin spread across Brown’s face. Brown turned to Lee, his eyes gleaming.
“It looks like I have two applicants now, but only one job.”
“So you’re the other applicant?” Carter asked, turning to Lee.
“Yup,” Lee said.
Carter held out his right, dirt-streaked hand. “Then I wish you luck, and I’ve got no hard feelings if you’re the better man.”
Despite his irritation, Lee took the offered hand and introduced himself while Carter shook the hand in his firm grip.
Brown rubbed his hands. “So, Carter, tell me about yourself. You look like a man with plenty of hard riding experience.”
Carter shuffled a scuffed boot in a circle, creating a grimy swathe across the floor.
“No,” he said. “Back on our farm, we couldn’t afford horses, so I don’t have much experience of hard riding. I mainly hid on freight trains and walked here.”
Brown coughed. “Most that goes on around here doesn’t involve riding. Trouble arrives in town without asking, but you look like you’re a man who can take care of himself. How good a shot do you fancy yourself to be?”
Carter added another grimy swathe to the floor with his other boot.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marshal. I’ve never owned a gun. Back on our farm, we couldn’t afford guns.”
Brown coughed again. “I reckon too many lawmen overrate gunfighting skills. I like my deputies to keep their guns holstered and not to react without thinking. So how are you in a fist-fight, unless you couldn’t afford them back on your farm?”
Carter grinned and smashed a fist into his other hand, producing a puff of dust.
“We sure could have fights, and I used to fair whup my brother when he got too ornery.”
While smiling, Brown rubbed his hands and nodded to Lee.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Carter widened the swathe of grime on the floor.
“Except my brother is only ten years old.”
With a sigh, Brown rubbed his sweating forehead.
“My notice asked for tough, dependable men to apply for the deputy’s job.”
Frowning, Carter shuffled from side to side. “Did it? I can’t do reading. We couldn’t afford fancy books on my farm.”
Brown sighed deeper and as he muttered to himself, Lee stepped forward.
“Marshal, with all due respect to my fellow applicant,” he said, “who can’t ride, shoot, fight, or read, I reckon you’ve heard our qualifications for the job. So which one of us are you picking for your deputy?”
Brown shrugged and headed to his desk, his eyes blank.
“Do you need to ask?” he said.
Chapter Two
SERGEANT NATHAN MCPHERSON stood to attention as Major Parish marched toward him across the dusty corral. Parish clipped his boot heels together, coming to attention crisply, but he avoided his eyes.
“I have signed the orders,” Parish said in brisk, military tones while saluting. He handed out the scrolled document.
With a returning salute, Nathan took the document. “By the order of Major Parish, on this day, April 7, 1875, we are to execute Clam Maxwell, Jack Town and Abe Mountain for gun-running, their deaths by firing squad.”
Parish saluted. He swiveled on his heel and marched to the side. Nathan turned to the prisoners. Ten miles out of Fort Riley in a windswept corral, the three prisoners stood. Thick ropes bound their arms and legs to firing-posts, and their chests were bared for the bullets that would end their lives. Nathan marched ten yards to stand in front of the first prisoner.
“Clam Maxwell, do you have any last words?” he said.
Clam’s eyes were wide and protruding. His grime-lined face masked the patchwork of scars his lengthy career had earned him. Clam spat on the ground and then licked his lips and held his chin held aloft. In relief that Clam hadn’t spat at him, Nathan nodded.
“All right, no last words. Do you want the blindfold?”
Clam sneered, revealing a wide expanse of yellow teeth. Then, with the barest movement, Clam nodded. Nathan waved for Trooper Drake to complete his request and marched to the next prisoner.
“Jack Town, do you have any last words?”
Jack snuffled and rubbed his dribbling nose on his shoulder. The effort didn’t stop the wetness running over his mouth.
“There’s no point,” he said between wheezes. “I don’t reckon you’ll want to hear from the likes of me.”
Nathan shook his head. “You’re wrong. A condemned man can say whatever he wants to say.”
So Jack did. Despite hearing several choice and physically impossible actions Nathan could do to himself, which he noted for future use on errant recruits, Nathan maintained a fixed smile. When a burst of violent coughing ended Jack’s tirade, Nathan nodded.
“Thank you kindly. Do you want the blindfold?”
Jack spat on Nathan’s boots, but then his shoulders slumped and he nodded. As Drake blindfolded Jack, Nathan marched to the last prisoner. Although Nathan was of average height, he faced the center of Abe Mountain’s chest.
Even though Abe was tied, with three times the bonds of the other well-secured prisoners, a flurry of alarm shook in the pit of Nathan’s stomach while he was within this man’s substantial reach. Two weeks ago, they’d captured Abe.
They’d used twelve men to hold him down. Afterward, every man had bruises from head to foot and they’d regretted that they hadn’t brought more men. To preserve dignity, Nathan stepped back three paces.
“Abe Mountain, do you have any last words?”
Although his voice was robust enough to holler orders across a fort, whenever Nathan spoke to Abe his voice sounded light and airy. He felt as if he were talking to a giant redwood.
Just as Nathan decided that Abe wouldn’t acknowledge him, his vast, bristling red beard and shaggy shock of hair dropped down. Inch by inch the head descended until the piercing blue eyes were on him.
Nathan smiled – he’d discovered something about Abe. Whenever possible, he acted slowly to lull people into thinking he always moved slowly. This trick had fooled many people as, when he wanted to, Abe could move with a speed that defied belief.
“I have something to say,” Abe boomed. “I’m holding you responsible for my arrest. You’ll regret your actions, as will everyone who ever crossed me. The time has come to right wrongs.”
Nathan nodded. He’d received the three standard forms of last words when prisoners faced death: surly silence, abuse and threats.
“Thank you for the warning. Do you want the blindfold?”
Abe regarded the barren wilderness. “When death catches me, it’ll have to sneak up on me when my eyes are closed or I’m not looking. Otherwise it couldn’t get the better of me.”
“All right,” Nathan said.
Many prisoners couldn’t admit they needed help at the end. This obtuse way of asking for a blindfold wasn’t unusual. He gestured to Drake to bring the blindfold, but Abe chuckled, the sound like boulders thundering in a landslide.
“So I won’t need the blindfold. Death won’t catch me today. Not when I can look straight at it.”
Nathan shrugged. He came to attention, marched to the side and did an abrupt right turn.
“Burial duty, report at the double,” he called.
The burial duty quick marched into the corral, dragging behind them the burial cart on which they’d move the dead men. They stood beside the line of firing-posts and to Nathan’s orders, removed their hats and stood at ease with their heads bowed.
Nathan marched ten paces, did another right turn and then marched until he stood beside his firing duty. He counted to ten.
“Firing duty, present arms,” he said.
Rifles and hands clapped together.
“Ready,” Drake said.
Nathan exchanged salutes with Drake, unsheathed his sword and raised it high above his head.
“Firing duty, take aim.”
His firing duty thrust one leg forward and swung their rifles up, aiming two at each prisoner.
