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  Taggart’s Crossing

  John Taggart and Jacob Stuckey are Civil War veterans who operate a ferry on the mighty Arkansas River. When two drifters pick on Jacob, Taggart ruthlessly disarms them and sends them on their way as they vow revenge. But there is more trouble to come. Russ Decker and his gang steal a fortune in gold ‘Double Eagles’ from a bank in Wichita. Their escape route into the Indian Territories takes them by way of the ferry crossing. With a posse of Pinkerton Agents on their trail, they decide to stop the pursuit by putting John and Jacob out of business . . . permanently.

  Unknown to Decker and his men, a Deputy US Marshal also has his sights on them, but the lawman first has to deliver a particularly unpleasant prisoner to Fort Smith. In addition to all this, fate decrees that a keelboat full of stolen silver ore will arrive at Taggart’s Crossing just at the right moment to ensure maximum havoc.

  By the same author

  Blood On The Land

  The Devil’s Work

  The Iron Horse

  Pistolero

  The Lawmen

  The Outlaw Trail

  Terror In Tombstone

  The Deadly Shadow

  Gone West

  A Return To The Alamo

  Taggart’s Crossing

  Paul Bedford

  ROBERT HALE

  © Paul Bedford 2017

  First published in Great Britain 2017

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2231-5

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Paul Bedford to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  In fond memory of my father, Ronald (1924–1994).

  I think he would have enjoyed this book.

  Chapter One

  ‘How the hell can four of us crew that thing?’ Naylor demanded as he stared in wide-eyed shock at the big keelboat – also known as a poleboat, on account of the long wooden poles that were used for steering and to propel it upstream. ‘It must need ten times our number.’

  The black-haired monster of a man at his shoulder regarded him pityingly. ‘Because we’re only going down river, you simple shit. We’ll have the current with us, not agin us. All we’ll have to do is steal it and steer it.’

  Darkness had finally fallen over Canon City, Colorado. Like most frontier mining camps it had its charms, if one had the ready cash to pay for them. Unfortunately for Ed Teach and his three cronies, nothing ever seemed to pan out quite the way it should. They had arrived at the diggings too late to secure a decent claim. Those already there were organized and proof against the petty theft and poorly planned violence which was Teach’s usual modus operandi. Their faces had become known and their days numbered. It was time to pull off something spectacular and hightail it before they all ended up stretching a rope.

  It was Teach, in his often shaky capacity as gang leader, who conveniently overheard a drunken conversation that seemed to offer the prospect of real gain. Because the railhead of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad hadn’t yet reached Canon City, the silver mined by the big operators had to be transported a distance of about a mile by road; the wagons were always heavily guarded, but a flash flood had just washed away the dirt track and so for a short while the valuable ore would be moved to the railhead by river. The precious cargos were still guarded, of course, but someone had decided that since the country’s main arteries now consisted of railroads rather than rivers so the days of the river pirates must have passed. Consequently, the fifty-foot keelboat was already loaded ready for an early morning start, but only three poorly paid men patrolled the landing stage.

  As the last rays of light had drained out of the sky, pitch torches had been lit, but the flaming light only illuminated the immediate area. Teach and his men were free to make their preparations unhindered. Hidden in a stand of Bristlecone Pine trees, the three ruffians watched with amazement as their boss produced a bottle of ‘rot gut’ from his jacket. He was not normally known for his generosity.

  ‘What I need,’ he announced in unusually hushed tones, ‘Is someone looking like they’re on a ten-day drunk, who can distract those fellas for a moment. And you get to keep this bottle of Who Hit John. Who will it be?’

  A twitchy, squinty-eyed character going by the colourful name of Barf Baxter immediately stuck his hand up. ‘Me, me. I can do it, boss. I’ve been drunk most of my damn life. It’ll be a piece of piss!’

  Teach stared at him intently for a long moment. ‘Fair enough, just don’t mess up,’ he finally replied. Menace coated every word and the other two men were suddenly glad it wasn’t to be them. ‘And hand over that belt gun,’ he added. ‘I don’t want anything making them nervous.’

  Accepting the well-worn Colt, the brutalized thug glanced at the other two. ‘An’ when we rush ’em, there’s to be no shooting. You hear?’

  Their shift had barely started and already the three guards were bored stiff. The enclosed cabin on the moored keelboat was a tempting resting place and maybe later, in the silent early hours, they would risk it. But for the time being they would prowl around and make a show of doing what they were paid for. After all, it was highly unlikely that they would actually be called upon to do anything dangerous.

  A sudden commotion off in the dark had them reaching for their weapons, until a tremendous belch followed by a fit of giggling reassured them. Some miner had drunk far more than his fill and would doubtless regret it in the morning.

  Baxter’s unkempt figure swayed into view. He had made a sizeable dent in the cheap whiskey, just in case Teach might later change his mind, he had also poured some of it over his clothes for the sake of realism. His natural condition was to be unwashed and lice-ridden, so the resulting stench was overwhelming. As though suddenly spotting the three men, he waved gleefully at them and called out, ‘Well howdy there, fellas. Ain’t it purdy down by the river?’

  One of the guards made a half-hearted attempt to warn him off, but in truth the man was glad of a diversion.

  ‘Aw hell, mister,’ Baxter protested loudly. ‘I don’t mean you no harm. Here, have a sip of this bug juice. It’ll make you feel real good inside.’ So saying, he tottered nearer with his hand outstretched.

  The three sentries unsuspectingly closed in around him. They were sorely tempted to accept his offer . . . until they got wind of the foul stink. ‘Jesus, fella!’ one of them exclaimed disgustedly. ‘You must have been swimming in something mighty bad.’

  Belching loudly, Baxter drew nearer to one of the flaming torches and peered myopically at them in the flickering light. ‘Aw, don’t take on so. It ain’t like it’s puke or such.’

  His reluctant audience never got the chance to comment on that as the sound of pounding boots suddenly reached them; there was a sudden rush of movement as the ‘drunk’s’ cronies erupted from the gloom. In the vicious mêlée that broke out, Baxter was knocked full length by his own boss; the precious bottle of ‘joy juice’ shattering on the side of the keelboat.

  Teach seized hold of one luckless guard and headbutted him full in the face, before finishing him off with a ferociously lethal chop to the throat. Another groaned in acute agony, as a Bowie knife was abruptly buried up to its hilt in his soft belly and then cruelly twisted before being withdrawn. Only one of the doomed sentinels got the chance to fight back. Momentarily separated from his assailants by Baxter’s prone figure, the lone survivor drew and cocked his Schofield revolver. Yet before he could fire, Naylor swung his ancient Spence
r carbine in a great roundhouse sweep, so that the stock smashed into the guard’s unprotected skull. Perversely, it was the shock of that brutal blow that caused the man’s right forefinger to contract.

  The sudden detonation, in the stillness of the night, sounded like a cannon discharging. Teach, always on a hair trigger, was almost beside himself with rage. ‘You stupid bastards. I said no shooting!’

  The fourth member of the gang, a swarthy knife-fighter by the name of Rio, had the sense enough to realize that this was no time for recriminations. Gripping his blood-soaked Bowie he opined, ‘It weren’t nobody’s fault and what’s done is done. We need to get the hell out of here.’

  ‘I give the orders,’ Teach retorted belligerently, but then a cry of alarm in the darkened camp abruptly concentrated his mind. ‘We needs to go. Get on the damn boat and find the poles. Rio, use your toad-stabber to cut through the ropes.’

  That man hesitated. ‘We might need them for tying up down stream, boss.’

  More loud voices sounded from behind them. The alarm had well and truly been raised and Teach’s patience was exhausted. ‘We don’t get moving, there won’t be any down stream. Just cut the poxy cables!’

  As his men clambered onto the cigar-shaped, shallow-drafted craft, the big, unkempt brute had an inspiration. Rushing to the nearest pitch torch, Teach grabbed it and thrust it into a gap in the landing stage planking. Even as he joined his cronies on board, the flames began to spread. He gave no thought to their three victims, even though one of them was quite possibly still alive.

  ‘After this they’ll maybe treat us better next time,’ he snarled with decidedly perverse reasoning, although his next remark demonstrated that he did possess at least half a brain. Noticing that the knife-fighter was making for the rear cable, Teach bawled out, ‘Not that one, shit for brains. Get the front one first, or the current’ll swing us around.’

  The other man stared at him dumbly for a moment before comprehending. Then, without a word, Rio raced the full length of the boat. Anger at the slight burned deep within him and fuelled his actions, because, in truth, it was very rare that he made a mistake. He furiously sliced through the forward cable, Teach took up a thick pole and placed the far end against the side of the burning jetty. ‘Come on, come on,’ the big man urged.

  Finally there was a shout of triumph and the front of the boat began to ease away from the jetty. It couldn’t come soon enough for the increasingly nervous thieves. Fresh torches had flared up in the camp and were now moving rapidly towards the river. As Rio scurried back towards the rear, Teach bellowed, ‘Move yourself. They’re nearly on us.’

  As if to emphasize the dire urgency, a warning shot rang out, followed by a booming voice. ‘Get off that boat, you sons of bitches!’

  As the swarthy desperado slashed at the thick rope, the approaching posse spotted the three bodies on the blazing landing stage and a collective howl of anger went up. More shots exploded; the muzzle flashes briefly flaring in the night and this time hot lead slammed into the keelboat’s timbers. What had initially seemed like a good plan appeared to be going disastrously wrong.

  Then Naylor opened up with his battered Spencer. It was an old gun, but a repeater nonetheless. The return fire gave the angry miners pause and at that moment Rio uttered another exultant cry as the severed cable dropped into the water. With the keelboat no longer restrained and Teach manically heaving on his pole, the blazing jetty abruptly fell away.

  Taken up by the current, the craft rapidly picked up speed and anger turned to frustration on the riverbank. Another ragged volley of shots boomed out. Apparently oblivious to the bullets smacking home all around him, Rio – fired up by the exertion and excitement – mockingly waved at the rapidly receding camp. Gleefully, he yelled out, ‘Huzzah, you limp-dicked sons of bitches.’ Then to his companions he added, ‘We done showed those cockchafers a thing or two.’

  In a matter of moments, the sleek craft had been swallowed up by the gloom and all that could be seen of Canon City was the inferno that had been a landing stage. It was then that all high spirits abruptly left the outlaws, as they were confronted by the reality of their new life on the river. A strained silence settled over them for some time, as all four men struggled to gain control over the boat using the long poles that they had found. The long, heavily laden craft seemed to possess a life of its own as it veered alarmingly from side to side.

  Then Teach noticed the ten-foot long steering oar attached to a swivel at the rear and suddenly everything became so simple. With the barely visible riverbanks sliding by on either side and the Arkansas doing all the work, the novice pirates were suddenly able to relax.

  Teach uttered a great sigh of relief. ‘Hot dang. We made it. We’ll put a few more miles between us and that camp and then pull into the far bank for the rest of the night.’ He glanced over at Baxter and was surprised to see glum, downcast features. ‘What the hell ails you, Barf?’ he snapped. ‘We’ve actually done good for a change!’

  The foul-smelling outlaw stared at him sullenly. ‘I had my heart set on the rest of that bottle,’ he mumbled, before adding accusingly, ‘And you broke it!’

  Chapter Two

  ‘This place got a name?’

  Jacob Stuckey twitched with surprise and peered up from his task. With the Arkansas River flowing vigorously behind him, he had been so engrossed in daubing hot tar on the thick rope that he hadn’t even heard the two horsemen arrive. And with only one hand, he most times had to concentrate that bit harder than most people. As they sat their saddles awaiting a response, he urged his slow mind into action.

  ‘Not that I know of, mister. It just is, that’s all.’

  The bearded man tipped a battered, sweat-stained hat back on his head and sneered. ‘Is what?’

  Jacob was confused. He sensed that the unexpected conversation was already going badly, but for the life of him he couldn’t think why. Nervously, he tried again. ‘It exists, just like it’s always done, I guess.’

  The second stranger, scrawny with a thin moustache, shook his head in disbelief. Like his companion, he was casually chewing tobacco. As he spoke, black juice seeped unpleasantly from the corners of his mouth. ‘What kind of answer’s that? It’s got to have a name. Some kind of name. Otherwise how will we know where we’ve been?’

  Jacob glanced over at the substantial log cabin, hoping that he might see John’s burly figure, but the threshold remained unhelpfully empty. There was something about these two men that he didn’t like and he vaguely recalled that in an earlier time he would have told them where to stick their curiosity . . . but he had been a different man then. In fact the whole country had been different. As it was, he didn’t know what to say and so remained silent.

  The bearded horseman felt no such constraints. ‘Where’d you lose the arm, friend?’

  Jacob placed the brush back in the tar pot and stood up. He could feel a flush coming to his features, as he always did at the mention of his disability. His right hand instinctively touched the empty sleeve and he suddenly recalled everything as though it was only the day before. Reluctantly, he replied, but in doing so supplied a little too much information. ‘I was in Armistead’s Brigade at Gettysburg. There was a fearful amount of violence in those three terrible days. I guess I was lucky to come out alive.’

  The two men glanced darkly at each other, before the scrawny one venomously remarked, ‘Fought under the Stars and Bars, eh. That’d make you a Johnny Reb, boy. And you know what? I lost my brother in that battle because he wasn’t as lucky as you. He was a true Union man through and through, until some God damn rebel blew his head off!’

  Jacob’s flesh began to crawl as he gazed up at the hostile strangers. What was happening here? Only five minutes earlier, he hadn’t possessed a care in the world. Yet now he was suddenly facing two troublemakers all on his lonesome. And he suddenly noticed that they were leading two heavily laden pack mules. That most likely meant that they were outlawed up and trading with the I
ndians. Feeling the adrenalin surge through his body, he desperately tried to keep his voice steady. ‘It was all a long time ago, mister. Best just to let things lie.’

  The lips under the thin moustache peeled back to display a set of gritted and discoloured teeth. ‘Don’t sass me, boy,’ he snarled, as more tobacco juice leaked through them. ‘You need to learn that sometimes there just ain’t no forgetting!’ Even as he spoke, the scrawny individual’s right hand drifted towards the Colt Army strapped to his waist.

  With his guts beginning to churn, bile rose in Jacob’s throat. It was thirteen years since anyone had shot at him, but the terror was suddenly immediate. ‘Please, mister,’ he pleaded. ‘If I said something to upset you, it weren’t meant and I’m real sorry.’

  The two men merely stared fixedly at him as though he was just some kind of insect to be crushed.

  ‘Are you fellas always this much fun?’ The strong voice emanated from the cabin’s entrance and suddenly everything had changed. As Jacob breathed a sigh of relief, the hand of his tormentor froze just short of the revolver butt. Then, very slowly, the two men urged their animals to the left, so as to scrutinize the speaker. What they saw gave them pause for thought.

  To their jaundiced eyes he appeared to be built like a house side. Exceptionally tall and broad, with jet-black hair, he was leaning casually against the building’s inner doorframe. Worryingly, his hands were out of sight above the top rail and so could easily have been holding a weapon. Since neither of the startled horsemen appeared to be in any all-fired hurry to answer him, the occupant of the cabin carried on in an even, but strangely menacing tone.

  ‘My name’s Taggart. John Taggart. I own this cabin, the outbuildings and the ferry waiting over yonder. Since that’s very probably what brings you here, I’d advise you not to provoke me.’