Mac MacDonnell rode his roan, high up on the eastern bank of the Canyon of the Dead.
The Canyon was originally called Sun Canyon because it was almost always sunny. It was renamed, primarily because no one ever called it by it proper name. It is the most inhospitable patch of land, certainly in this area and perhaps in the entire southwest.
The natural inhabitants ranged from gila-monsters, to scorpions, with a generous sample of poisonous snakes, but to these one had to add the human factor. The Canyon was a perfect hideout for several well organized gangs of rustlers and cut throats that operated in the area, not to mention several bands of renegade Indians. It was rumored that the Canyon was honeycombed with caverns, reaching back into its sand stone walls. Some large enough to shelter a small army and many supplied with ample water within their depths. This made it almost impossible for an attacking force to win; all the outlaws had to do was sit tight and wait for the sun, and the Canyon's unrelenting heat to do its job.
Mac had saddled up and headed northwest toward the town of Dexter, on the strength of information obtained from a poster. It called for cowboys who weren't afraid of the smell of gun smoke. The sign said rustlers were the problem, and fighting wages were being offered. Mac was between jobs and fighting wages sounded very inviting.
He pulled his horse to a stop in a small patch of shade, offered by the bank. The benefit of the shade was almost unnoticeable, because of how efficient the heat radiation from his surroundings was.
Mac had some problems and he was all too aware of them; water was by far the most pressing. He had been traveling nights and holding up in what ever shade he could find during the day, this cut down on the need for water, but it didn't eliminate it. The water had run out two days ago, thirst was becoming a real issue as uncomfortable as he was; Mac knew his horse was in much worse shape. The tell tale signs of dehydration in the animal, were all too evident.
He was reluctant to enter the depth of the Canyon; the heat would be at least twenty degrees hotter at the bottom than it was here and this was almost unbearable. Descending into the depth upped the ante in the game of life; he and his horse were playing. The horse had been trying to enter the Canyon for sometime now, perhaps sensing the presents of water. Mac weighted against that the sure and certain knowledge that their lives would be dramatically shortened in the hell that was the interior, unless they found water and rather quickly.
Dismounting with a sigh, he lead the horse to a descending trail and stepped in behind her as she made her way down the steep and dangerous slope. Hanging onto the horse's tail was the only way Mac could safely make the decent. Twenty-five to thirty feet down the slope took on a gentler nature and the horse picked up her pace. A shape word from Mac brought her to a halt. Seated again in the saddle he gave the horse the signal to move, but made no effort to control her speed or direction.
The rolling motion of the saddle combined with the intense heat of the lower part of the Canyon acted like a sedative. Mac found his head dropping against his chest and had to fight just to stay alert. He had traveled all night�"at day break the need for water was so great he pushed on, driven by that need.
The terrain was flattening out, huge boulders some the size of two storey houses dotted the landscape, having at sometime in the pasted broken off the cliff walls and rolled to their present location.
Heat waves shimmered, distorting his vision, bringing into question everything he saw. The horse now had the bit in her teeth�"with the smell of water so strong, she only had one purpose. Mac's need for water mirror hers, so he made no effort to control her.
He turned all his attention to his surroundings. Ahead off to the right, he thought he saw a flash of movement, then the glint of sunlight on metal. He drew his rifle and was bailing from the saddle as the shots rang out�"six no seven he counted, as he dove into a rock pile. Lying prone among the rocks, Mac surveyed his little piece of real estate, about eight feet square and anything but secure.
He had spotted most of the shooting points, five spread out in a fan in front of his little fort. The fort wasn't all that much; they would send out flankers, once they did the end would come quickly. What was worse Mac knew, was they didn't need to do anything. He was parked out in the blazing sun, with no water or shade. They only needed to wait and let the sun and heat do its job.
Not being one to wait for a fight to be brought to him, Mac leaped to his feet and made a rush for a rock pile about twenty-five feet to his right. Bullets flew thought the air about him, the metal projectiles made the dust fairly dance at his feet. Glancing to his right he saw three Mexicans standing in plain view trying for a killing shot.
He brought the rifle around, not aiming so much as just pointing. His first shot struck the biggest of the three, stopping him dead in his tracks. His second shot hit another of the trio, but he and his companion managed to crawl back into the rocks. Mac knew this wouldn't account for much in the overall scheme of things, but by gum it sure did make him feel good. At least he had drawn a little blood. Mac was set to dive into the rock pile when he felt a slug take the heel off his right boot. Losing the heel threw his balance off, making his leap into the rock pile an awkward and dangerous affair.
Dropping his rifle Mac opted to free his hands in an effort to try and avoid serious injury against the rocks. His plan succeeded up to point, his landing although not that gentle, could have been a lot worse�"at least it resulted in no broken bones. His rifle did not fare that well, landing in the rocks first, Mac landed on top of it breaking the stock off and bending the lever mechanism. He surveyed his new prison, a little larger than the last one it even created a little shade of its own, although it was of little value because of heat radiation.
Mac considered his position, even viewed in the most optimistic terms it was not encouraging. He thought back to the many times he had discussed death with his partners, around campfires, or it bunkhouses from here to god knows where. These discussions always ended with a flippant remark. Dying is something I will do, but I intend to make it the last thing I ever do. Or dying seems like a good idea when you can't do anything else. Now looking the grim reaper right in the face, the question took on a different flavor. Still he thought if this is it�"what the hell, a man plays the cards he's dealt, whishing they were better doesn't make them so.
The options were plain to Mac, sit tight and take a defensive stance making this last as long as it could. Or take the offensive�"take the fight to the enemy, do the things he least expect you to do. You probably don't live so long, but what the hell�"at least you go with style.
Mac crawled on his belly to the edge of the rock cover, sprang to his feet and rounded the corner of a ridge. There not more than thirty feet away, stood one of his enemies, dressed in the tattered grey uniform of a rebel soldier. Mac knew the type�"a man fresh out of wars to fight and not sure where he belonged any more. Surprise played a huge part in shaping the events that followed. Both men were surprised, but the Reb recovered slower. This gave Mac the edge he needed. His hand gun swung up, even as the rebel brought his rifle into alignment, two shots rang out almost as one. The slug from the rifle whistled a tune as it sped past Mac's left ear. The slug from the hand gun hit the rebel right in the belly, the second dead center in the chest. Mac charged right ahead�"the rifle, if he could get the rifle it would go a long way at evening the odds against him.
That’s when it hit him, an incredible force that stopped his forward motion and drove the very breath from his lungs, sending him sprawling in the dust. He cracked his head on a rock and his vision changed�"it was almost like he was seeing things in slow motion, almost as if he wasn't even involved.
Four men were walking toward him, three with guns aimed, the other, a Mexican spoke to him in perfect English.
"Amigo, you are one hard man to kill. I don't suppose you have anything of value, worthy of two men's lives and another crippled?" He bent down and picked up the silver watch that had belonged to Mac's brother.
"Well looky here, I got me a fancy time piece. Let's see Lieutenant Jeffery MacDonnell, U.S. Cavalry Texas Military Academy." He grinned. "Should have guessed you were a soldier boy, by the way you shoot."
He walked toward him and knelt down a little. "See that big Mexican back there, well you got one very big problem. You done shot a hole in his younger brother's head and he's a little ticked off about it. So what is going too happen is he will do some cutting on you, to see if that makes him feel better. I think in a few minutes you are going to wish it had been you, who had taken the bullet in the head. They all laughed as the big Mexican stepped forward, yelling something in Spanish. Mac's eyes were blurry, he could barely see his face, but he did catch the glint of sun light reflecting off the knife he held.
The thought of death was becoming all too real, when a strange thing happened. The Mexican seemed to miss a step; there was the report of a rifle and the Mexican collapsed right in front of Mac. All hell broke out as bandits scrambled to mount their horses. They all rode off shooting wildly at a target to Mac's right. Mac looked in that direction, while drifting in and out of consciousness�"there seemed to be a man standing in front and off to the left of him. He was tall, slender and almost boyish in build. On the right side of his vest there seemed to be the gleam of a badge. The rifle he leveled, time after time at the fleeing outlaws, shone like a new gold coin. Mac fought to stay alert, but it was a losing battle as he drifted into unconsciousness.
***
Mac awoke gradually--his foggy brain couldn't make sense of the hot breath on his neck and the insistent nudging of his torso. Perhaps, he thought he had died and gone to hell, where the devil was testing him to see if he's eatable and nudging him into position for the final sacrifice. Slowly as his head cleared he became aware that it was his horse Jess that was pestering him. She probably wonders why he wanted to sleep at this time of the day. He searched out a rock he could use as a back rest, before taking a sort of inventory of his condition.
Someone had moved him to the edge of the water hole, in the shade of several trees; the bandana that circled his neck had been wetted. His stomach hurt like fire, but an examination showed only a bruise. Mac nodded with satisfaction, bruises are much better than holes he acknowledged. The shot must have resulted from a bullet glancing off a rock, had it been straight on, the result would have been quite different. He had no weapons on or near him, but he was starting to remember what had happened.
He took his damaged boots off, rinsed his socks in the water and hung them on a bush. Mounting Jess, he led the three other horses, which had congregated near the water. Mac stopped at the site where the big Mexican who was going to carve him up such a short time ago, lay. He was shot once in the center of the chest, judging by the wound with a rifle. Looking around the site he soon located his colt, cleaned it off and checked the loads before slipping it in his holster. A detailed search of the outlaw's body didn’t turn up any sign of his brother's watch. This saddened Mac, it was all he had to remind himself of his brother who had died in the service and it looked like it was lost forever.
At the body of the rebel, Mac found a replacement for his damaged rifle, checked its load and slipped it into the scabbard. With the three bodies each over its own horse, Mac again headed for the inviting shade of the water hole.
Sitting at the edge of the water his feet dangling in, Mac became acutely aware of the fact he didn't have a pair of serviceable boots. A quick survey of the dead men soon brought to light, the fact that the slimmer of the two Mexicans was about his size. Slipping the boots off the dead Mexican, Mac carried them over to the waters edge. Rinsing each foot he dried them with an old bandana. He slipped the still damp socks on, before sliding his feet into the newly acquired boots. By damn, he thought, just like they were built for me.
Everything had unfolded pretty much as Mac had remembered it, everything except for the slim lawman. Search as he might, Mac could find no evidence that the lawman had ever existed, no tracks, no shell casings, nothing and yet man and beast do leave tracks. It was a puzzle, which he could not logically explain even to himself, as his grim little group left the relative safety and comfort of the water hole.
The rest of the trip to Dexter was hot, long, but thankfully uneventful�"this suited Mac because he had seen enough gun play to last him quite a while.
Once out of the Canyon the landscape changed dramatically, desert conditions gave way to pasture, cattle could be seen grazing on the hillsides. As he crossed a small running creek near the outskirts of Dexter, Mac paused to admire it. It was the first flowing water he had seen in well over a week.
The sun was setting as he rode into Dexter, moving right down the main street with his grim cargo in tow. Mac saw the sheriff's office, tucked between the town's two saloons. The irony of the situation didn't escape him�"Dexter’s pillar of law, surrounded by the sins of the flesh. Well, Mac mused, the sheriff wouldn't have far to go when responding to most complaints. Mac pulled up at the hitching post and started tying the capture horses to it.
"Don't tie them too tight I'll just have to untie them. I don't want that kind of garbage cluttering up my place of work, any longer then is necessary." The voice belonged to a big barrel of a man, who had just exited the sheriff's office. "I'm Sheriff William Stunner! Now what's this all about?"
"Mac--MacDonnell! I just came up from New Mexico. He explained what had happened at the water hole, in some detail. I heard there were jobs here about, at better than going wages, so I thought I'd have a look see."
"I suppose this youngster you speak of, can back up your story?"
"I reckon he could if I could find him. I'll admit I wasn't seeing things real clear about that time, kinda waving between awake and asleep, if you know what I mean. I saw him clearly just before I past out, he was standing on the high ground, just to my right about twenty-five yard from me. Just worken that golden gun of his for all it was worth. I thought you would know him, I'm sure he had a badge on his vest."
"There are no lawmen operating in this area that I know of and believe me, if there were I would know. The description you gave loosely fits the last US Marshall we had in this area. Lester Lugin, young fella, but he was about as good as they come with a rifle. He marshaled here about three years, swore he would clean out the gangs that inhabit the Canyon. Dam near did, I'll bet he sent almost a dozen high riders to their great reward and brought in another three or four for hangen. All most three years ago his luck ran out two prospectors came across his body, or what was left of it after the buzzards had their fill. He was identified by a tooth capping he had done here in town and his cloths, we never found his badge or rifle."
"Hey, Sheriff! You got you gotta see this. It looks like this guy has managed to nab both the Mandarois brothers." The Sheriff quickly confirmed his deputy's findings.
"Yea it's them, isn't any doubt about that. Congratulation young fella, you just became four hundred dollars richer than you were when you rode into town."
"I only killed the smaller of the two. The Marshal, killed the big one"
"Yea, well the law says; two hundred each for the person who brings them in, dead or alive and in so far as I can see that’s you. Look son, I don't know what happened out there at that water hole. You had admittedly taken quite a beating and were operating on the verge of unconsciousness. You say you saw a lawman�"that came to your assistance�"I don't know�"the mind plays tricks on us at times of stress. Maybe it was an Indian you saw, perhaps a rival band of outlaws�"truth of the matter is, I don't know what you saw and I'm not all that sure you do either. I'll telegraph the paper work for the rewards out to-night with a little luck we should get confirmation by to-morrow, or the next day at the latest. You need to head for the hotel, a hot meal and a good night's sleep will make you feel better, trust me."
Mac stopped at the livery stable to look after the needs of his horse, before heading to the hotel. A helping of the beef stew tasted so good, Mac ordered another, along with a bottle of what management laughingly called cold beer. As he finished his second helping of stew Mac suddenly realized just how incredibly tired he was. He paid his bill and headed for his room. In the cracked mirror of the dresser, he examined the bruise on his stomach. It was sore as hell, but was now taking on the dark purple and black shade of a sever bruise. Shrugging he delayed further examinations in favor of sleep.
Mac guessed it to be late morning, nine o'clock perhaps, when he awoke and true to his values, he considered it a disgrace.
The day broke sunny and warm threatening to become a real scorcher, as the sun rose higher in the sky. Mac headed for the general store thinking that perhaps some new clothes would be more fitting for a guy of his financial means. After purchasing a pair of pants, a shirt and some underwear he headed for the barbershop/bathhouse. Mac ordered a bath�"while it was being drawn, he looked around the barbershop. There on the wall in a glass case was a model of Winchester's Golden Gun.
"Now that's one beautiful rifle, I only saw one other and that was at a distance."
"Yea, that's the Winchester Golden Gun, some people called it the golden boy. They brought it out in 66, thought the public was going to fall in love with it. Truth of the matter is they did, but at twenty-five percent more than their Henry Model it was just too expensive for the average person. They sold a few, but they are after all just the Henry Model made from polished brass." The barber, Mac found out was quite a gun fancier in his own right.
The bath was ready�"the hot water felt good on his bruised and tired mussels. He soaked in it for nearly an hour. Entering the barbershop again Mac sat in the chair.
"I'll have a shave and a hair cut, if you please, sir."
The barber was a cheerful fellow and a talker. Mac settled back in the chair and listened.
"Yes sir�"you must be damn good with those shooten irons to get two outlaws, wound another and you with hardly a scratch. Not many people travel the Canyon these days. No law for fifty miles around here except for the sheriff and he's to smart to go messing around that Canyon. Oh we did have a few territorial marshals in these parts, but they were either run out, or died trying to stay. The best of the lot was a young feller by the name of Lester Lugin, came from back east some where. He cleaned up this area better than anyone before or after him, well there hasn't been anyone sense him. They claim he killed better than a dozen high riders in the three years he was here and brought in another four or five for hangen. Still there seems to be plenty left to carry on their lawless ways. Yes sir�"he was a lawman all right, his luck ran out at the waterhole just this end of the Canyon about 12 miles from town."
Mac head perked up a bit. "Do tell, that's where I had my run in with the outlaws."
"Now hold still or I'll be given your throat a nick, knew a fella who dam near bled to death that way. Yea I heard that’s where you had your encounter, bad spot, those bandits aren't stupid. They know people coming up that Canyon, have had a hard dry trip, so all they have to do is sit and wait. I imagine they got a rude surprise, when you showed them the error of their ways."
The barber finished the shave, cleaning off his face with a warm moist towel.
"I remember the day they brought Marshal Login’s body into Dexter, over a horse. That was one sad day for Dexter�"he’s buried in the grave yard just north of town. He cut a fine figure of a man, standing tall with that golden rifle of his."
Mac was counting out some money, when what the barber said sank in.
"Golden rifle;--did you say golden rifle?"
"Well it weren't real gold of course; it was shinny brass, one of those Winchester Golden Guns. He sure loved that gun�"they never did find it."
Deep in thought, Mac stared blankly into space, until the barber asked.
"You ok pal--you look kinda white?"
"Yes thanks, here is the money I owe you�"you did a first rate job."
When Mac left the barbershop it was admittedly with mixed feelings. Dead law men don't shoot bandits, or drag people to water holes, it just doesn't happen. Although there aren't a lot of Winchester Golden Guns around, there are bound to be a few and tall, slim cowboys are a dime a dozen.
At the hotel Mac put the run to a breakfast of steak, eggs and toast complete with home made jam. His head felt much better to-day, but his stomach was still very tender, fortunately that didn't affect his appetite.
On his way to the saloon he decided to check in with the sheriff. As Mac entered the office, the Sheriff rose from behind his desk.
"Well now if you don't look a dam sight better than you did last night. All cleaned up, new duds and a good night's sleep. Come in Mac, I'll fill you in on the bounty."
He looked up from some papers on his desk.
"Now this is the way it works. The town of Dexter claims all the outlaws' personal belongings, including horses and saddles. This pays for putting them in the ground and other expenses. I sent the telegram first thing this morning and they sent a reply confirming that they received it. So I expect your money to be here by late afternoon, in the form of a bank draft." He leaned back in his chair.
“Well if it's a job you're looking for you won't have any problem, any number of outfits around here would be glad to have a cowpuncher that’s as good with a gun as you are. I'll hook you up with some of them if you like."
Mac sat there kinda lost in thought, before answering.
"Yeah that would be good, maybe later to-day."
The sheriff rose to his feet saying.
"Well, stop in around four this afternoon, we should have your money by then."
Mac headed for the saloon, a drink sounded good. It was busy, seems a cattle drive had come into town and there were twenty thirsty cowboys in town, looking to cut loose a little. Finding a place at the bar Mac ordered a beer, then took a chair with his back to the wall. Some cowboys were standing next to him and their rough housing, caused one of them to spill a little beer on Mac's new shirt.
"Hey, watch where you're spilling that stuff."
The cowboy turned with a snarl.
"What did you say to me?"
"You heard me."
The cowboy turned to face Mac, as he stood up. People cleared out from behind him in case of gun play. The bartender said something to one of the cowboy's friends. He stepped forward and whispered into his friend ear. Beads of sweat immediately started forming on his face, which had taken on a sickly white shade.
"Look partner I didn't mean any harm, we’re just blowing off a little steam, that’s all."
As Mac spoke his eyes remained alert.
"No harm in that, just watch where you're spilling your beer."
"Yes sir, I'll do that," he said, and quickly turned to join his friends.
It would seem that word travels fast in this town. The news of Mac gunning down three notorious outlaws, had given him somewhat of a reputation. That was okay with Mac, he would take all the help he could get in a town like Dexter. Although he was a fair shot, Mac had never considered himself to be a quick draw artist. He finished his beer and turned to leave, but a full length picture on the wall froze him in his tracks.
The picture was one of Marshal Lester Lugin stranding with his Winchester Golden Gun, beside the body of an outlaw he had just gunned down, according to the caption beneath it. Mac couldn't take his eyes off it�"there in the picture was the very lawman, which had stood with him at the water hole in the Canyon of the Dead.
Mac was beginning to get some weird feeling about the town of Dexter and the surrounding area. He was comfortable with flesh and blood issues, but this place was down right spooky. Mac went to the livery, retrieved and saddled his horse, while asking the liveryman for directions to the grave yard where Marshal Lugin was buried.
Just ride north about two miles then take the first trail to the right, for about a mile. You can't miss his grave it's the one with the big cross on top.
"Much obliged."
After a very pleasant ride to the grave yard, Mac dismounted and walked among the tombstones. Grave yards always gave him an uneasy felling and this one was no different. He could see by the freshly dug graves that this was a popular place. Near the back Mac saw a big stone with a cross on top and slowly approached. It read Marshal Lester Lugin, 1850-1875, may he rest in peace. On the bottom line were just two words, Texas Lawman.
Mac took off his hat and through shaky lips he spoke the first words he ever had, to a dead man.
“Thanks lawman.” Mac turned to go, but something made him look back, that is when he caught a flicker of light and looked up at the cross. A shiver went down his spine like he had never experienced before. Because there twisting in the sun on one of the arms of the cross was his brother’s watch.
Mac rode straight back into town and headed for the Sheriff’s office. He looked up from his desk as Mac entered.
“Ahh, my boy I have just what you’re looking for," he held up a paper. "Now let take a walk to the bank and sort things out.”
As they waked to the bank, the sheriff looked at Mac kind of strangely.
“You okay son, you look a little spooked”.
“No I am fine,” Mac lied.
The banker looked at the paper.
“This is a lot of money to be carrying around; do you have a bank account anywhere?”
“Can you send this money somewhere else just like it was sent here?"
“Sure enough can, any bank, in any town you like, it will just cost you a four bit service charge. “
“Good! Give me thirty dollars and send the rest to Grand Bank in Central City Montana. I don’t have an account there, but tell them to hold it for me I will open one when I get there in about a week or so.” Mac signed for and was given a slip of paper to give to the bank in Central City. Paying the banker out of the thirty dollar, he turned and headed out the door with the sheriff following.
“Thought you were fixing to do some cowboying, around these parts son?”
“Change in plans, Sheriff, came on kind of sudden.”
“Well that kind of thing can happen now and then, to be honest; this town takes a little getting used to. I don’t know which way you’re headed, but Montana is to the north, and there is a stage leaving for that general direction in a half an hour. They would be more than happy to have another rider with them, little more security”
They walked back to Mac’s horse, and Mac took a bottle out of the saddle bag, he had bought early that day.
“Sheriff�"I know law men are not suppose to take gifts or rewards, but I think this bottle of fine Tennessee sipping whiskey belonged to one of those bandits. That would make it the property of the town of Dexter�"I will leave it in your tender care."
"God bless you son, I will guard it with my life."
Mac mounted his horse, hooked up with the north bound stage and rode out of Dexter with out so much as a glance back.
What happened to him in last few days was a mystery and he suspected it would remain that way. He don’t plan on telling anyone about anything that happened, they would not believe him if he did.
Mac was headed north again where he had originally come from. Sure the winters were a lot colder and cattle work didn’t pay quite as good, but people were little friendlier up that way. A feller didn’t have to rely so much on his luck. Beside, there was a pretty little Philly by the name of Jenna in Central City. She helped her aging parents run a dry goods store and had been making hints about getting married and settling down.
‘Well Jess. Mac mused, maybe I will try my luck at that.
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Subscribe
Flag Writing