“You got that right,” Deckert said. “I know there was only one of him and three of the robbers—”
“Five if you count the two that got away,” the bartender said, interrupting Deckert in mid-sentence.
“Five then,” Deckert corrected. “But here’s the point I was gettin’ at. They was five stagecoach robbers and only one of Matt Jensen, which means the robbers was outnumbered.” He laughed.
For a second or two, neither the bartender nor anyone else at the bar reacted.
“Don’t you get it?” Deckert said. “They’s only one of Matt Jensen and they’s three—maybe more of the robbers, but I said they was outnumbered.”
There was still no reaction.
“Because he’s so good,” Deckert explained in an exasperated tone of voice.
“Oh, I get it now,” the bartender said, and he laughed out loud.
“So you see, friend, if you really are plannin’ on holdin’ up the coach, you might want to think about it again, lessen you run into this here Jensen fella.”
“There you go, friend, you just talked me right out of it,” Willis said, laughing and holding up his beer.
The others in the saloon laughed as well.
When the Dry Gulch closed its doors for the night, Willis and Meechum, not having enough money to waste on a hotel room, rode just outside of town where they bedded down in an arroyo beneath the huge dark slab of the McDowell Mountains.
“We goin’ to try and rob that stagecoach, are we, Willis?” Meechum asked.
Willis shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he said.
“Good, ’cause to tell you the truth, I wasn’t lookin’ forward to something like that again. I think waitin’ till the money gets here, then robbin’ the bank that it’s put into, will be a lot better.”
“We ain’t goin’ to do that either.”
“What do you mean we ain’t goin’ to do that? Ain’t that what we come here for?”
“We come here to get money the best way we can,” Willis said. He smiled. “We’ll just wait around until this here Bixby fella takes the money out of the bank. It’ll be a lot easier takin’ the money from him than it would be robbin’ a bank.”
A big smile spread across Meechum’s face.
“Yeah!” he said. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“So, all we got to do is spend a week or so here without gettin’ into any kind of trouble.”
After Meechum spread out his blanket, he stepped a few feet away to relieve himself. As he stood there, urinating, he happened to look up just in time to see a falling star. Long ago, his pa had once told him that every time you see a falling star, it meant someone was about to die, and he wondered if it was an omen for his own fate.
He shivered.
Chapter Twenty
Picket Post Road
The next morning, the sun was a quarter of the way up in the east as the wagon lumbered along the road. Its transit was accompanied by a symphony of sound, from the footfalls of the mules to the jangle of the harness, the rattle of the connecting pins, and the squeak of one of the wheels.
The driver, a grizzled old man, spat a plug of tobacco, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then turned to the boy sitting next to him.
“Dewey, did you grease that right rear wheel like I told you?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Malcolm, I done greased it just like you said,” the twelve-year-old replied.
“Do you hear that?”
They quit talking for a moment, the silence interrupted by the incessant squeak and chirp of the right rear wheel.
“Yes, sir, I hear it,” Dewey Calhoun admitted.
“It sure as hell don’t sound like you greased it now, does it?” Malcolm asked. “If that axle is worn flat when we get back, I’m goin’ to be takin’ it out of your pay to buy a new one.”
“Well, I done it, just like you told me,” Dewey said.
They drove on for a few more minutes, then Malcolm tensed. “Get out of the wagon, boy,” he said.
“What?”
Malcolm reached for the shotgun that lay in the floor beneath his feet. “Get out of the wagon and run find yourself a place to hide,” he said. “I just seen some Injuns and I don’t think they’re friendly.”
“Mr. Malcolm, I can’t leave you to—”
“Damn it to hell, boy, I said get out of the wagon!” Malcolm said harshly. “I don’t intend to be worryin’ none about no snot-nosed boy!”
“All right,” Dewey said.
“Jump out here, then go down the side of the hill and head north. When you reach the Salt River, turn left, it’ll take you to Phoenix. It’s about eight miles, but you can make it. Take the canteen.”
“But there’s only one canteen,” Dewey said.
“You’ll be needin’ it more’n me,” Malcolm said, holding the canteen out. “Now, do what I told you.”
“Yes, sir,” Dewey said. Taking the canteen Malcolm handed him, Dewey jumped over the edge of the wagon, then started down the hill digging his heels into the dirt to stay upright, and sending rocks rolling down before him.
Malcolm looked back just long enough to see Dewey get out of sight. Then he picked up the double-barrel shotgun and held it across his lap. When he came around the curve, he saw four Indians in the road in front of him.
“White man, what do you have in the wagon?” one of them asked.
“What I have in this here wagon ain’t none of your business,” Malcolm replied. “Now, get out of my way if you don’t want to get gut-shot.”
“I think if you give us some of what you have in the wagon, we will let you pass,” the Indian said.
“To hell with that!” Malcolm shouted. He brought the shotgun up and fired. The heavy blast opened up one Indian’s chest and he fell from his horse. The other Indians returned fire and Malcolm was hit with three bullets.
A quarter of a mile away, as Dewey was still hurrying down the side of the mountain, he heard the gunshots, echoing and reechoing through the mountains. He breathed a quick prayer for the soul of his employer, because he knew, without having to see, that Mr. Malcolm had just been killed.
Phoenix
At the very moment young Dewey Calhoun was running for his life, Ken Hendel was sitting in the lobby of the Phoenix House Hotel reading the Arizona Gazette.
INDIANS RAID RANCH!
Three Killed.
A Gruesome Scene.
On Wednesday last, George Gunter gathered his newborn calves for branding in the expectation that Joe Clark, a helpful and friendly neighbor, would come over to lend him a hand in this necessary task.
When no small amount of time had passed after the appointed hour and Mr. Clark had not arrived as they had arranged, Mr. Gunter rode over to Rancho Grande for the purpose of ascertaining the reason for his neighbor’s tardiness. That was when he was greeted with a scene that is almost too horrible for the sensitivities of the readers of this newspaper.
Joe Clark was found on the ground outside his house, foully murdered. It was not difficult to determine the cause of death, as there was an arrow protruding from his back, as well as several bullet wounds. It was obvious by Mr. Clark’s position that he was making a brave attempt to protect his wife and child. That courageous effort, despite Clark’s intrepidity, was to no avail, however, as further exploration resulted in the discovery of Mrs. Clark and their young son, both dead, on the kitchen floor.
While this might appear to be the work of Geronimo, Agent Eugene Baker of the San Carlos Indian Reservation has advanced his opinion that the Indian most likely responsible for the atrocities at Rancho Grande is the Apache Delshay. If that is true, there is a reason why Delshay’s malevolent deed resembles those perpetrated by Geronimo. According to Agent Baker, Delshay was, but recently, a member of Geronimo’s nefarious band, leaving the war trail to return only because of the impending birth of his son.