Blood and Gold

We smelled wood smoke while we were still a fair ways from Yates’ camp. Reeves, as was his habit when he embarked on any desperate venture, was humming softly to himself, a kind of tuneless, monotonous chant he made up as he went along.

We rode through a brush-covered gully between two hills, our horses stepping carefully, and then into a narrow valley that doglegged off to our right. The slopes on either side of us were dotted here and there with post and shin oak and mesquite grew all over the flat.

The sun was directly above us, mercilessly hot, and the cloudless canopy of the sky was the color of washed-out blue denim. The legs of our horses made a swishing sound as they walked through the long grass and off to my left a bird called, called again, and then fell silent. My saddle creaked and the buckskin’s bit jangled when he tossed his head at flies and I constantly wiped the sweaty palm of my right hand on my pants.

Ahead of me, I saw Reeves slip the rawhide thong off the hammer of his Colt and I did the same. We reached the dogleg and swung north with the valley. The scent of smoke was stronger now, and I smelled bacon frying.

The valley ended on the south bank of Sandy Creek, the shallow stream’s entire length lined with cottonwoods and willows, a few scrubby elms raising their thin branches to the sky.

The wind was gusting, tossing the long grass, bringing with it the camp smells from somewhere off to our right.

Reeves turned in the saddle. “Close up, Dusty. I want you on my left if the shooting starts.”

I nodded and kneed my horse beside the lawman’s big sorrel. “I’ll do the talking,” Reeves said. “Bully Yates is a speechifying man, loves the sound of his own voice, so maybe I can sweet-talk him into surrendering.” His smile was thin. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

We rode right into their camp before the six outlaws were even aware of our presence.

A tall man in a black-and-white cow-skin vest and black hat saw us first. His jaw and the armful of wood he was carrying dropped at the same time. “Bully!” he yelled. “We got comp’ny.”

Bully Yates was a huge man, big in the chest, shoulders and belly, and a cruel white scar stood out like a livid mark of Cain on his unshaven left cheek. The outlaw carefully set the pan of bacon he was frying away from the coals of the fire and rose slowly to his feet. He carried two guns, unusual at that time, worn butt forward in the holsters, their ivory handles yellowed with time and use.

The five other outlaws crowded close to Yates and I could detect no sign of friendliness in their faces or fear in their cold eyes either. They were all hard cases, well-armed, and like Reeves there didn’t seem to be any backup in them.

“Morning, Bully,” Reeves said, sitting easy and relaxed in the saddle, his voice calm and conversational.

“It’s gone morning,” Yates answered, his voice sullen.

“Well, good afternoon then,” Reeves said, smiling, as pleasant as you please.

“What do you want with us, Bass?” Yates asked, his eyes wary.

Reeves nodded. “That’s the way, Bully. Get down to brass tacks right away and to hell with the pleasant ries. I always say that my ownself.” With his left hand he slapped the pocket of his coat. “You know me, Bully. I’m a duly sworn officer of the law and I’ve got me a warrant for your arrest on the charges of murder and robbery. And I’ve got five more just like it for you others. I plan to take all of you to Fort Smith, where you will get a fair trial and later be hanged at Judge Parker’s convenience.”

“Big talk for a black man with a half-grown boy at his side. Hell, there’s six of us here.”

Reeves waved a hand in my direction. “This boy is my deputy and he’s already killed seven men in the line of duty. It would grieve me sore if’n you turned out to be number eight, Bully.”

“In a pig’s eye, he’s killed seven men. That boy ain’t hardly weaned yet.” Yates’ hard blue eyes found mine. “You ride on out of here now, boy. I got no quarrel with you.”

I shook my head at him. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Yates, I reckon I’ll stick.”

The outlaw shrugged. “Your funeral, boy.”

Reeves kneed his horse a couple of steps closer to Yates. “Come now, Bully. Give it to me straight. Will you not drop those guns and surrender?”

“To hell with you!” Yates yelled. And his hands flashed to his Colts.

Reeves had been right. What happened next was almighty sudden.

I drew my Colt and fired at the man in the cow-skin vest, who was just then drawing a bead on me. My bullet hit him low in the chest and dead center and he screamed and dropped to his knees. I had no time to see what happened next because a bullet split the air inches from my ear and I caught the smoke and muzzle flash of a gun to my left. A tall redhead was thumbing back the hammer readying another shot, but I shot faster. My bullet hit the cylinder of the gun in his hand, bounced off and crashed into his chin. The man made a gurgling sound, rose up on his toes, then stretched his length on the ground.