Swinton McCready and The Hillman Gang

The horse shivered in the snow. Its rider was a large man wearing a big coat and an old hat. He was chewing a cigar, watching the valley in front of him. His face was concealed by an overgrown beard, with a large scar under his left eye. It was bitterly cold. The rider shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He was waiting for someone.

An hour passed by, the snow falling heavier. In the distance, the rider saw an orange glow in the fog. He calmly reached under his coat, putting a gloved hand on his revolver. “Who goes there?” he barked, in a raspy voice. The orange light stopped. “It’s Swinton d****t! Is that you Joe?” it replied. The rider grunted, took his hand off his gun and rode forward.

The orange light slowly got nearer, and its wielder was a small man in a bowler hat. The rider’s horse stopped next to him, towering over his small frame. The rider looked down at the little fellow. “You make an awful lot of noise for a fella your size” said the rider. “F**k you, Joe” replied the little man. “Been walking for hours looking for you lot”. He looked behind Joe. “Where are the rest of the boys?”

Joe moved his head, motioning behind him. “Back there” he said. He pulled the cigar from his mouth, looking hard at the little man. “They aren’t too happy about being called into a snowstorm. Whatever you got, better be good.” “Don’t you worry, Joe. What I found gonna make you boys real happy”. He grinned, revealing his stained teeth, two of which were gold.

“Lead the way then” replied Joe. Swinton turned on his heel, going back the way he came. “Follow and watch your footing. Gets real rocky up ahead” he replied. The walked on, battling the wind. The snow eventually became too deep for Swinton, and Joe hauled him up onto the horse. They rounded a bend and came across an outcropping. “Here” shouted Swinton, over the wind.

He dropped to the ground, waded through the snow to a large boulder. He began digging, and after a while, pulled out a large satchel made of leather. He passed it up to Joe. Inside, was a folded piece of paper, with a scrawled message on it. Joe unfolded it, reading the words. His eyes widened, behind the bushy beard. After he finished, he looked down at Swinton. “How did you come by this?” he asked, eyeing the small man intently. Swinton grinned again, full of mischief. “Long story. How about you take me back to your camp, and we’ll talk it over?”

St Augustus, 1912. The West is a land on the rise, full of technological advancement, business and the slow eradication of outlaws and freedom-seekers. Great railways across the hills, steamboats in the waters. Folk were cultivating the new way of American life. What remained of the nomad, the cowboy, was fading away. Deep in the heart of the West, St Augustus was home to all those cast aside, with taverns and hotels for the gunslinger and rancher, who still believed in freedom.

Joe Walters, alongside Swinton McCready and the Hillman Gang, used this town for wares and for lodgings. They had travelled through on their way to the mountains and were now arriving back after a few days away. They rode back in within the early hours, and secured rooms in the local hotel.

“How do you do, Sir?” said the hotel owner, standing at his desk. “Good, looking to get a few rooms” replied Joe. “Five, exactly.” “Of course, you boys come through here often. I’ll get them ready, let you know when there done.” Said the owner. “Thank you, Bill,” said Joe. “Me and the boys will be getting a few drinks, be back before morning”.

Joe stepped outside, the Hillman gang were a group of five men, all ex-ranchers turned mercenaries, bounty hunters, cattle-herders. Anything that wasn’t tied up in the new age. Swinton, the small, crafty Irishman was the sixth, a loose hanger-on and a wicked soul and salesman. “You fellas go to the saloon” said Joe. “Gotta have a few words within Swinton here”. The Hillman gang rode off on horseback, more than ready to get a strong drink.

Joe and Swinton made their way to the edge of town, past the stables. Once they were away, Joe lit a cigarette, illuminating his lined face. “You sure about this Swinton?” he asked. “Without a doubt, Joe” replied Swinton, sitting on a tree stump. “There’s more gold in that grave than the bank in the town”. Joe grunted. “Got mouths to feed, Swinton. Can’t go that far without knowing it’s there”.




“You Americans are a forgetful bunch; do you not remember the map?” said Swinton. Joe grunted, fishing it out of its pocket. “This, as rare as it is, is not proof” said Joe. “We’re talking about thousands of dollars here, Swinton. Left in the ground by a gang of thieves. Robbing a stagecoach guarded by The Freemans is no easy feat, let alone burying it in hardened soil. This might not even be true”.

“It’s a legend, Joe” spat Swinton. “Of course, people are sceptical of it. When you find it in a satchel belonging to a Freeman’s son, tends to be a bit more truth there. Poor lad had tried to get across the mountains on horseback in the middle of winter. Barely clothed. Probably stole it and as attempting to get something for it”.

Joe grunted. “I’m getting a drink, Swinton, then going to bed. Let’s talk about this tomorrow”. “Keep that map safe” replied Swinton. “I got some things to be tending to, see you later”.

Joe made his way back towards town. Exhausted, he went straight to the hotel. He walked up the stairs, the spurs on his boots chiming. He opened the heavy door the room, hung up his hat and coat, and placed his pistol belt at the edge of the bed. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Was this story of buried treasure true? Or would he end up leading his men into nowhere, with only the earth to be pulled up from the grave?

Joe awoke to daylight streaming through the curtains. He stood up slowly, seeing himself in the mirror. He looked like a wild man, with his large beard and untamed hair. He dressed and headed downstairs into the hotel. Travellers and guests were milling back and forth. Joe eyed window across the road, for the barbers. He nodded to Owner, still at his desk, and made his way across the street outside.

Walking into the barber, he was greeted by a well-groomed, thin man wearing a white coat. “Welcome, Sir” he said. “How about a cut, and a shave?” Joe nodded. He sat in the chair. The barber put a white apron over him and began wetting a towel. “I’ve seen you about town a few times, Sir, glad to have you in here finally.” Joe grunted. “Just here for a little while, may be heading south soon” he replied. The barber brought over a large razor and cream. He spread the cream on Joe’s face and began shaving him.

“Well, let’s take of this and you can get on your way” said the barber. They fell silent for a while. Joe glanced outside, seeing a wagon coming into town. It was being drawn by two large grey horses and was painted black. It came past the barbershop, and Joe saw a large crest imprinted on the side. It read, “Isiah and Edward Freeman”.

Joe’s thoughts raced. The Freemans. The guards that had looked after the stagecoach that carried all the gold, buried in the ground hundreds of miles south. What could they be doing in St Augustus? The barber finished, and Joe paid him. He grabbed his hat and coat and moved quickly down the street. The hotel owner greeted him as he rushed past. He raced up the stairs to find Swinton barrelling past him. “Joe” he gasped. “The Freemans are here, they’re looking for a gang. They think one of us killed the kid with the map.”

Joe went into his room and pulled back the curtain. He saw the black stagecoach at the end of the street. Around it, four men stood, holding long rifles. Joe grunted. Opposite, he could see his gang leaving the saloon. “Get out there Swinton” he said quietly. “Go for the back street, I’ll get the boys”. Swinton put his bowler hat on his head and rushed out. Joe quickly moved to the window and pulled the curtain shut.

Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a black neck scarf. He caught a reflection of himself in the mirror, seeing his face without a beard for the first time in months. The scar on his face reached all the way down to his chin. He wrapped the scarf around his face, concealing all but his eyes. His tightened his pistol belt and left the room.

The Freeman guards jumped down from the wagon. The largest of them, cocked his rifle. He was searching the faces of the townspeople. He knew gangs, and the expressions and scars they wore. His brother’s son had been found, dead in the snow. He knew only gangs would go up into the mountains, in search of refuge.