Luke Zane and the Bushwhacker
By K.G. McAbee
Story copyright K.G. McAbee 2014
Cover art: Western Trails pulp magazine, 1928 issue
Other titles by K.G. McAbee include:
The Journal in the Jug
Cabbages and Kings
Time Is of the Essence
Professor Challenger and the Creature from the Aether
Luke Zane and the Bushwhacker
Luke Zane drew back on the reins and peered ahead to where the trail began to dip down from the high country.
Something was wrong. He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but it was there. There was something about the look of things that he didn't much like. No, not so much the look, but the feel of things. Things weren't right. Something, somewhere, just didn't add up. But he was derned if he could figure out what. Still, whatever it was made the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
He took a sniff of the brisk breeze; sagebrush and pine, water in the not-too-far distance, and maybe a hint of smoke from an old campfire.
The dusty trail stretched before him, winding downhill towards the flatlands and a small town he could just barely make out a hint of in the distance. Carterville, his destination; he'd been heading towards it for most of the last ten days, and it felt mighty good to see at long last.
But still. Something wasn't right.
He slouched at his ease on the black horse, his rifle cradled in his arms. The horse, a big stallion, had belonged to a cayuse name of McCoy, but that was before Mr. McCoy had got himself a bullet hole just off center of the middle of his forehead. It had been a righteously deserved bullet hole, at least in the opinion of Zane and some few others.
But that had been a good many weeks back. Now Luke Zane rode the big stallion, his stocky pack horse Jessie on a long tether behind. Jessie's packs hadn't decreased much in size on the journey, mainly because she was mostly hauling small tight bags of gold nuggets and dust, along with some food and water. One man who was a good shot didn't need to carry much in the way of food for a trip like this. Luke was bringing more than six months' worth of gold to be assayed and turned into hard cash. And Luke had decided to come alone, even though some of his new acquaintances, miners, goldpanners and such, had offered to tag along with him. Luke liked to travel light, travel fast and travel alone.
Except he was pretty sure he wasn't alone no more.
Luke's ice gray eyes peered under the brim of his Stetson. Nothing in sight that might give him this funny feeling. And town wasn't more than a few miles ahead, where he could get a hot meal, a slug of whiskey, and a soft bed while the assayer's office weighed up the gold he'd brought.
No use hanging around here all day. "Giddy up, Buck."
The big stallion—he'd never known what McCoy had named the horse, so Zane just called him Buck—started forward. Even the horse was more alert than usual. His ears lay back against his head and he kept glancing nervously from side to side. Behind, Jessie gave that funny little snort she had when she didn't like the smell of something but she came long smooth enough.
The trail led down the side of a right big cliff that rose higher as the horses descended. The cliff was close to sheer above him, with an overhang near the top; Luke didn't expect any trouble from that direction. Nope, the trouble would come—if trouble there was—when he got away from the shelter of the cliff and started out across the flatland, thick with scrub pines and aspens, on the way to town.
He drew Buck up when the cliff at his left was little more than man-high. That was the only dangerous time, when someone hidden could jump down on him. Man and horses sniffed the breeze.
Nothing.
So it—if there was an it—would happen on the ride into town then.
Luke descended to the flatland and examined the trail before him. It led in almost a straight shot towards a ragged cluster of trees that hid the town from him now; he could see a small stream that flowed in a gentle arc off to the right after it came free of the woods. The scent of water beckoned the thirsty horses; Jessie gave a whicker of desire and even the stolid Buck snorted.
The sun was directly overhead, but it was dark in amongst those trees.
Luke considered a moment, then pulled Buck's reins to the right instead of urging him straight ahead. He'd water them both first, before the trees grew thick around them, then decide what might be the best route to take into Carterville. The trail that led straight through the trees…or mayhap some other way.
He reached the stream with no problem, right where it came out of the trees, and got down from Buck's broad back. He slid the rifle into the holster on his saddle and dropped to his belly for a drink of cold water. Lord, but it tasted good!
***
Sally Joiner removed her bonnet and hung it on a convenient nail near the door. She nervously smoothed her gingham dress before she smiled at the storekeeper. "Mr. Gipson, thank you kindly for this opportunity. I won't let you down, I promise."
"Miss Sally, I knows you won't." Thaddeus Gipson, his belly only slightly less broad than his grin, reached behind him with a grunt to untie the strings of his heavy canvas apron. "I been needing someone to help with the inventory in this old warehouse for a coon's age. I just hope you don't mind me leaving you out here when I go home to eat my dinner? Believe me, ma'am, I am happy to have you here. And besides, ain't nobody as good at calculating as a schoolmarm, is there?"
Sally laughed. "Well, I do have a way with numbers, and that's a fact."
"I just hope you're not going to be too scared, out here all alone." Gipson shook his head. "It's lonely, and it's gonna be until the town grows and folks start building out this way."
She took the heavy apron from Mr. Gipson, slid the top loop over her head and wrapped the long strings around her own waist; she had to take several loops, since it was considerably narrower that the portly storekeeper's. "Don't you worry your head about me. I'll lock the door behind you and I am just as fine as needs be, sir."
"All righty then. Now don't you go doing any heavy lifting, you hear me? Leave them bags and boxes and such up on the shelves alone, and just take note of all the stuff that's in easy reach," Gipson said as he stuffed his arms into his coat. "I won't be more'n a couple of hours or so, and anything hard to get to can wait until I come back. You know where I keeps the cashbox in case a customer does manage to find his way out here, though it ain't likely."
"Yes, sir! You have yourself a nice dinner, now."
"Oh, I always do! My Arabella is about the best cook in these parts. That's why I married her…but don't tell her I said so." Gipson winked one blue eye solemnly, jammed a hat on his head and headed to the front door. "I'm a'goin' to put this door on the latch, Miss Sally. You can get out but can't no one come in."
Sally Joiner waved as he pulled the door to behind him. She heard his buckboard squeak in protest as he hoisted himself aboard, even through the closed door. She took a deep whiff of the air in the sturdily built warehouse and tried to see how many things she could identify. Pickles. Tobacco. Bacon. A sharp scent that she thought might be gunpowder. Tea in wooden boxes lined one whole shelf behind the rough pine counter, and a pile of blue jeans was heaped almost to the ceiling on a table against the opposite wall. Rows of cans with colorful labels marched down high shelves.
In fact, the warehouse for Gipson's Emporium and Sundries was packed to the rafters with anything and everything a householder or farmer or rancher or cowboy could need or imagine. Sally was glad of the opportunity to help Mr. Gipson with the inventory, even only a couple of hours a day. As the only teacher at the local school, she stayed fairly busy, but helping out Mr. Gipson only made sense. Not only did he
own the largest store in town, but he was also her landlord; she had a room of her own over the schoolhouse, which Gipson also owned. And seven of her twenty-three students were Mr. Gipson and his Arabella's children.
A knock at the door. "Miss Sally?"
She smiled and ran to the door, pulled it open and smiled. "Evening, Sheriff Rhodes. What are you doing out this way?"
The strongly built man with the silver star on his chest smiled down at the petite Sally, his eyes shining. "I just wandered out to make sure you're comfortable, out here all by your lonesome." He blushed as he remembered his manners and quickly removed his Stetson. "Sorry, Miss Sally, ma'am. My mama taught me better than that. And how are you today? Them rascals down at the schoolhouse giving you any problems?"
"No sir, sheriff. Not after you called by that day and gave them all a talking to, they're not." Sally tucked a stray bit of hair, yellow as gold, firmly behind her ear. Funny, but it seemed like every time she saw Sheriff Rhodes, her hair started falling down.
"Why don't you come on in?" she asked brightly. "I can make us a cup of tea."
The sheriff followed her across the big room. "Yes'm, that would be right kindly in you. I'm in need of—"
But Sally didn't have a chance to get to the kettle on the stove in the back room.
At that very instant, the front door she'd just closed gave a violent bang as if someone had hit it hard with a hammer. The latch popped with an audible snap.
Sally and the sheriff turned as one.
A tall man dressed in dusty, travel-stained clothes was holding tight with one hand to the open door for support. And he needed it. Blood, brown and drying, splattered his face from a wound in his temple. One arm hung useless and his shirt was dark with blood.
He turned loose of the door and staggered two steps, then fell flat on his face.
Sally took immediate command. "My goodness. Will you help me get that poor man in the back, please, sheriff? Won't do to have him in the doorway like that. A customer might come in and trip over him."
Sheriff Jeremiah Rhodes gave her an admiring look then headed for the man. He knelt down and put two fingers on the man's throat. "He's out, but his heart's beating. You're right, as always, Miss Sally." With a grunt of effort, Rhodes heaved the limp form up. The man was taller than the sheriff and it was all Rhodes could do to drag him towards the rear of the warehouse.
Sally ran ahead and opened a narrow door, which led to another big, cluttered storeroom. Just inside the door to the left was the round table near a woodstove, with a fire in it against the chill of the evening.
"In here, sheriff. There's no place to lay him, I'm afraid. See if you can settle him in that chair, then I think it'll be best if you go for Doctor Hawkins. I'll see what I can do for the poor man while you're gone."
Jeremiah Rhodes shook his head and grinned at her. "Miss Sally, you surely are a wonder. Why, it's almost like you see wounded men every day of your life. I'll be as quick as I can." He was as good as his word. He turned and ran.
Sally put her hands on her hips as she surveyed the wreckage sprawled in the chair. "My goodness me," she said. "What sort of trouble have you got yourself into?"
She fetched some scissors and began cutting away his shirt.
***
Luke Zane heard someone groaning. He wished the varmint would shut up and let a man get some rest, but it didn't sound like that was gonna happen any time soon. He tried to open his eyes to see who was making all that consarned noise, but something pressed against them. Maybe his hat brim had slipped down…
"Take a drink of this," a voice commanded.
Finally, Luke thought. Maybe he'll shut up now.
Then he felt something hot against his lips. He smelled tea, tea with a good shot of whiskey in it. Never turn down a drink of whiskey, no matter what it's mixed with, boy, his daddy had always told him.
Luke took a sip. It was sweet and hot, and the raw whiskey burned his throat. He took a bigger drink. It tasted good and his head, which had been a mite confused, began to clear.
That durned groaner had quit his whinin' too. That was a relief.
Luke opened one eye. The other one didn't seem to want to cooperate any, but one would do.
An angelic face framed in beautiful golden hair smiled down at him.
Well, that settled it.
He was dead. Stood to reason. Weren't no angels in the Territories that he'd ever heard of.
He felt a deep sense of satisfaction. His Aunt Viola had told him to mend his ways or he'd never make it to the Pearly Gates. She'd been wrong, the old besom—
The angel disappeared and was replaced at once by a red face surrounded in whiskers.
Dern. Maybe Aunt Viola'd had her a point after all.
"How you feelin', son?" The voice had to struggle through the filter of whiskers but came out still powerful. A wave of whiskey fumes hit Luke in the face. "Here, take you another drink of this here tea; it'll do you more good than most anything else. And don't you spill any more on Miss Sally's purty frock, hear me boy?" The face drew back but the voice, now lessened to a soft buzz, continued. "You'll do fine for now, and I got to go. Miz Jenkins' young'un ain't gonna wait to be born much longer." He picked up a large black bag from the floor and disappeared from Luke's view.
Luke, aiming to get that golden-haired angel back in sight, struggled to sit up. He hissed as a sharp pain shot through his head, followed by an only slightly less sharp one down his left arm.
Soft hands pushed him back. He could tell they were soft because he seemed to be missing his shirt. He looked around. A big tin bowl of bloody water sat on the table in front of him, with a pile of even bloodier rags beside it. He was pretty sure that some of the rags had started out being his shirt.
The owner of the soft hands appeared in his vision. "You've been shot in the shoulder and a bullet creased your head," said the woman he'd mistaken for an angel. Though, Luke thought, it was a natural mistake. She sure was a looker!
"Uh, how'd I get here?" Luke asked her.
"Well, sir," said an entirely new voice, "I'm Jeremiah Rhodes, sheriff in these parts, and we was hoping you'd be able to tell us that your own self."
***
"I dismounted, looked around and didn't hear or see a thing, so I took me a big drink of good water. And that's the last I remember," Luke finished. He felt a good deal better than he had when he first woke; even the pounding in his head had lessened.
"And your own weapons don't appear to have been fired lately either," said Sheriff Rhodes. "So you was bringing in some gold to the assayer's office, were you? Who knew about this little trip of yours?"
"The folks what sent me is all," Luke said. "I'm thinking they ain't involved in this."
"What are you hinting at?" The sheriff's face turned red. "This is a law-abidin' town, Mister Zane, and folks around here don't cotton much to being accused of things they didn't do."
"Well, now, someone took a couple of pot shots at me, for sure." Luke gazed around the big storeroom, his single usable eye—the other was covered with a bandage—wide in innocence. "And I don't see my horses or the gold or any more of my goldarned stuff, do you?"
Miss Sally poured tea from a fat white pot into china cups painted with roses, and sugared each cup generously, then tipped a squat bottle and poured into two of them. "Now, gentlemen, let's don't argue amongst ourselves, you hear now? Someone took a shot at Mr. Zane, and someone took his horses and gear too. That's the main thing we need to follow up on, don't you both agree?" She took a calm sip of tea.
Sheriff Rhodes had a dazzled look in his face. Luke felt a mite dazzled his own self. This Miss Sally was a pistol, that was for sure! I wonder if she's spoken for…
"Yes, ma'am," Rhodes said meekly. "I'll got out right this minute and—"
"And I'll go with you. As soon, that is, as Mr. Gipson gets back from his supper. I cannot leave his place unattended." She looked down at an elegant little timepiece that was pinned
to the bosom of her shirtwaist. "I expect him any time this next half hour. He can watch Mr. Zane here while we go investigate this shooting."
"Miss Sally," the sheriff protested, "out in the wilds ain't no place for you."
"Don't say 'ain't', please, and what do you mean, sheriff? You'll be with me for protection, won't you?" She smiled up at him sweetly.
The sheriff's face went the exact shade of a brilliant sunset.
Lordy, but that man has sure got it bad, thought Luke, careful to keep any sort of expression off his face.
"Have mercy! Have we been attacked?" crowed a voice from the other room. "Miss Sally!"
Sally gasped. "The blood on the floor! Mr. Gipson will have a hissy fit. Let me get a mop right this minute!"
She trotted for the door.
Unfortunately, Mr. Gipson chose that exact moment to bustle through it from the other side. The two collided, and Sally was flung back…into the welcoming arms of the sheriff.
"I've got you, ma'am!" Rhodes set her upright.
Gipson had barely noticed the impact. "What in tarnation is going on here?" he asked, a worried look plastered on his ruddy face. "Are you all right, Miss Sally? Who is that man, and why are there two untethered horses right outside the front door?"
"Jessie," Luke said in satisfaction as he struggled to his feet. "That there is the smartest little old pony that I ever done seen."
It was Jessie herself, and Buck along with her, both of them drinking thirstily from the trough out front. Luke had made it outside with only a little help from the sheriff, and he gave Jessie a pat. When he stroked Buck's muscular shoulder, his hand came away wet with blood. But the horse didn't seem to be wounded.
"Probably your blood. You must have been on horseback when you got shot." Rhodes checked the packs on both horses. "Your, uh, cargo seems to still be here too."
Luke did a quick check of Jessie's packs. It looked like none of the bags of gold had even been touched. "I reckon you're right, sheriff. I'm going to take this gold down to the assayer's office right now. I'll admit, I'm gonna be a mite nervous until it's off my hands."
"He'll be closed for the day." The sheriff pulled out his pocket watch. "Lord, it's past six o'clock! But you're right; you're in no condition to guard gold until the assayer opens up in the morning. Tell you what. I'll lock it up in the jailhouse, and you along with it."