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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Poisonous Revenge
James P. Hanley
Sheriff Dave Nelson of Carter’s Crossing stared at the dead man on the saloon floor. There was no visible blood, no bullet hole in the body and no one saw the killing.
“He just fell over,” the puzzled bartender pulled on his gray-speckled beard and explained, shifting his bulk from leg to leg, “He ordered a whiskey, swallowed it and about ten minutes later, his head struck the bar and he went down.”
While they spoke, Doc Rand came in, carrying his worn bag of instruments. The town physician was near fifty and made noises about retirement but moved with the gait of a much younger man.
After a time, the sheriff asked, “What killed him?”
Standing straight, his dark pants bagging at the knees, the physician said, “There is a slight rip in his shirt at his belt and a small circle of blood. Beneath the tear, I saw a puncture, barely visible, as if he was jabbed by the tip of a knife, not enough to kill him. His color’s strangenotice the blue under his eyes and his fingers. I think he was poisoned, probably through the small stab wound.”
“I didn’t see anyone cut him,” the bartender said.
“You wouldn’t. As I said, it wasn’t deep, so anyone could walk by and stick him. This poor cowpoke probably didn’t feel it.”
“In a crowd like this, someone could stab him and not be seen,” the sheriff added. The saloon was a narrow building with all the sign of hasty construction: tin walls, a plain bar with a brass foot rest stretching across, tables and chairs scattered about, worn floor planking uneven in spots posing a hazard for drunks; the exception was an ornate glass wall with cut figurines in the corner, reflecting the back of bottles lined up in front. Turning to the bartender, Nelson asked, “Anyone suspicious here when that happened?”
The barkeep answered, “We have regulars but a lot of strangers come in here, too.”
Near midnight, Sheriff Nelson headed to the boardinghouse on the north end of town where he lived. Carter’s Crossing was surrounded largely by farm land and in the path of occasional cattle drives avoiding the trodden, more direct route to market. On the walk, Nelson passed a string of buildings which included a barber shop, post office and feed store.
After undressing and settling into the hard bed, Nelson was restless, wondering about the reason for the killing and the manner in which it was done. After a fitful sleep, he returned to the jail. His deputy, Rick Langley, was getting ready to patrol the streets until Nelson stopped him and explained what had happened that night. Standing together, the two men were opposites in appearance: Nelson was stocky with thick muscular arms, drooping mustache and a two days growth darkening his jaw. Deputy Langley was slender, clean shaven and dressed neatly, prompted by his reputation as a ladies’ man.
“I remember hearing there was a poisoning in a nearby town but don’t recall much about it,” Langley said. “You should talk to Ed Rawlings at the newspaper. He gets copies of the papers from all the towns in the county; he says he’s writing a book about outlaws in this part of Arizona,” Langley offered.
Walking gingerly around horse droppings and puddles from a brief rain, the sheriff crossed the street to the newspaper building, a small square structure with the sound of the presses escaping through the thin wood door. Ed Rawlings was sitting at his desk, his red-crowned head down, and was writing furiously when the sheriff entered the newspaper office. Looking up, the editor smiled, “Well, just the man I’ve been looking for. I’m writing a story about that death in the saloon last night. I spoke to Doc Rand.”
“I don’t have much to add and was hoping you could give me some information, like have there been any other killings by poison in this part of the territory?”
“There was a death in Hastings involving a poison arrow. The dead man was reported to be part of a gang of robbers who killed a ranch couple, but there wasn’t much more detail. Sheriff Brown at Hastings can tell you more.”
While killings were common in the county and some occurred in his town, Nelson was not willing to let a man get away with murder in his jurisdiction. However, a trail herd had come through the area with cowboys long in the saddle and intent upon letting loose in town. Nelson knew he had to stay around until they left in a few days. When things were quiet again, he deputized a man to help keep the peace there, and by early next morning, the sheriff was on his way to Hastings, about a half day’s ride. Arriving in the sleepy town late afternoon, he went to the hotel on the eastern edge of the row of buildings, signed in, and headed for the local jail. The streets were cluttered with lumber-loaded wagons, depositing the planks before the tall frame of a multi-storied structure. Children chased each other across the wooden sidewalks and parents called after them warning of the dangers of heavy wagon traffic. Some of the shops were preparing for closing. A low mountain loomed over the town.
Nelson continued the rest of the way to the town jail. The Hastings sheriff was seated with his arms folded, watching the commotion through the front window. The two lawmen had met previously and had, one time, joined to chase an outlaw wanted for gunfights in both towns.
“Howdy, Dave,” Sheriff Brown said. “Your deputy telegraphed and said you were coming, something about poison.”
Nelson explained what had happened at the saloon in Carter’s Crossing, and said, “I hear you had someone killed by a poison arrow.”
“Sit down,” Brown said, pointing to the chair across from his desk. Sheriff Brown had a youthful, tanned face marred only by a scar that began under his right ear and stretched to his cheek. He also had a reputation as one of the fastest draws in the area. “Three weeks ago, a drunk was shot by an arrow late at night as he was walking down the street. The wound was in his upper arm, not hardly enough to kill him, but he died. Doc thought the arrow was tipped in poisoned.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Yes; young Brett Spenser, the son of a rancher who married an Apache woman. The old man was respected by the local tribe. He’d give them horses and when he sold crops or animals from his herd, he'd buy them things, especially during tough times for the tribe. In turn, the chief, who was his father-in-law, would take the boy for times to teach him. Brett had his father’s features mostly, so he doesn’t look like a half-breed, but he sure knew Indian ways. The boy was seventeen and at the Indian camp when a gang rode into the Spenser place and started stealing horses. The old man and his wife were shot, probably trying to fight off the thieves. The killers were never caught but about six months later, a man came into town and stayed a few days. That night, he tied up his horse outside the saloon, went inside, got drunk and left at dark to bed down. The hombre probably didn’t know about the kid. I figure the mare came from the Spenser ranch, Brett recognized the animal and took revenge.”
“Do Indians use poison?”
“Not often. They’re good shots with their arrows or rifles, so they don’t need to use poison, but they know how, and which plants to draw the deadly liquid from.”
“Was the dead man part of that gang and did you arrest Spenser?”
The poisoned cowboy man was Callum Parker and he did ride with other men, probably that gang. Parker was a mean one who bullied whores and weak men at the saloon but nothing I could arrest him for. I heard that the gang had robbed stagecoaches in Kansas, even killed the drivers and a passenger, but I had no wanted poster, or anything to tie Parker to that band. I couldn’t arrest young Spenser, who claims he was at the ranch, because no one saw him shoot Parker. Everybody knows he did it, probably including the men from that gang. Just before he was killed, I saw Parker with three men, hanging around together and they looked like trouble. Yesterday, two more rode in. I heard there were eight outlaws, and if I’m right, now down to six. I’m sure the last will show up here or outside town and they’ll be after the kid. He’s not safe out at his place.”
“I have a room in the hotel and will head out to the Spenser ranch in the morning to arrest him or save him, maybe both. You want to come along?”
Sheriff Brown stood up and slowly walked around the desk; his injured leg was visible. “I can barely walk and riding is out.”
As the dark receded and the sun came shyly over the horizon, Nelson rode out and toward the ranch hours away. A chill wind blew across the open land until the heat of midday softened the cold. The Sheriff saw the ranch in the distance and noticed that the building and nearby barn seemed in need of repair. Closer up, he could see paint peeling from the wood siding and a window with a broken pane. Horses stirred restlessly in a large corral and in the plantings at the side of the house, the tops of crops rose from the overturned ground. Beyond the ranch, open plains circled the property and untended wild grass grew to knee-level height. Nelson remembered that the sole owner was seventeen, eighteen at most, still a boy, but had likely killed two men. As he got closer, an arrow struck the ground in front of his horse, as a warning, the sheriff figured. Knowing the young man could see him, Nelson took his badge from the front of his shirt and waved it over his head.
“I’m the sheriff of Carter’s Crossing and I came to warn you the rest of that gang the ones who shot your folksare coming to get you,” he shouted. “I suspect you poisoned two of them and we can talk about that later, but for now we need to keep you alive.”
After a while, the young man came out from behind the barn, his bow pulled back and the point of an arrow aimed at Nelson. “Keep your hands away from your gun and come closer.”
Nelson noticed that the young man was pale and had lines of war painted across his forehead and while his features had not inherited Indian sharpnesshigh cheekbone, full mouth, broad nose and amber coloringhe, nonetheless, had assumed the role of warrior.
As the sheriff moved slowly forward, a shot startled them both. They realized the bullet came from a distance and missed wildly, but signaled that the outlaws were not far away. Nelson kicked his horse and headed for the house followed closely by young Brett.
As they hunkered down inside, below windows facing out to the open area in front, Nelson said, “You got a gun? Those arrows don’t go far enough, especially if they got rifles.”
Brett Spenser nodded and hurried into a room to retrieve a rifle and handgun, placing them both by his side but picking up the bow and arrow. Nelson remembered that he hadn’t taken his rifle from the scabbard on his horse. Opening the door slightly, he said to Brett, “I’m going to get my rifle, cover me.”
As the sheriff crouched and duck-walked out, moving slowly toward his mare, he saw an arrow fly out the window, followed quickly by a second. The latter struck the chest of one of the outlaws who’d risen from hiding behind a section of the corral to fire at the sheriff. Nelson stood and ran toward his horse, and just as he pulled the weapon out, shots sprayed all around him, one striking the horn of the saddle, shearing the top. Gunfire returned from a closer spot and Nelson could see a long barrel protruding from the house window. Running, then rolling, toward the front of the house, he pushed the door with his body just as a bullet whizzed through the open space, slamming into a far wall.
“Sorry, I can’t offer you coffee,” the young man said, a half-smile on his face.
Nelson peered over the top of the window. With one man down, he suspected there were at least four, maybe five, if the last man had joined up with the others.
“We’re inside, well covered, with food and water. They can’t stay out there long, so they’re going to have to do something soon to get us out in the open.”
“They could charge but we’d get most of them,” Brett said.
Suddenly the window above Nelson’s head blew out after a shotgun blast broke the momentary silence.
“Firepower,” the sheriff said. “They had time to get weapons before heading here. They’ll try to fill this place with holes until a bullet gets us or we have to go out to fight.” As he spoke, the Sheriff saw Brett move quickly toward the back, the pistol and rifle still on the wood floor. “Where you going?”
Just then, the sheriff’s prediction seemed accurate: bullets came pouring through the thin walls and another shotgun blast tore away a chunk of the door. Ducking below the hail of bullets, he barely heard the back door open and in a moment when the gunfire had diminished, he peered out the window and lifting his rifle to the frame, fired at any movement he could see. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Brett Spenser crawling forward, his bow and arrows slung over his back. The outlaws didn’t fire in the boy’s direction, which, to Nelson, meant they hadn’t seen him. When Brett ducked behind a pile of firewood that was stacked high for drying, one of the men turned in the direction of the boy, but before he could call out to the others, an arrow speared his head and he fell backwards. As if momentarily confused, the outlaws had ceased targeting the house and looked around for the source of the fatal arrow. Before they could spot Brett, the young archer was nearly at the back of the house. The late shots missed him.
One of the mena tall, lanky cowboy with a high hat that sat awkwardly on the top of his head like a dunce capmoved closer carrying the shotgun. Aiming at the other window, he fired both barrel and the frame and part of the lower wall sprayed both men inside with bits of debris. His shots, however, were directed at the unmanned opening and Nelson was unharmed by the shots. Lifting up and pointing his rifle carefully, the sheriff caught the man, who leaped backward when the bullet struck him.
Brett was at the huge hole that was once the window firing his handgun at a man on the ground. The bullets kicked up around the prone shooter but none struck.
“What are the odds, now?” the young man asked.
“Five left town, maybe linked up with a sixth. You got two with arrows and I got that one with my shot, so there are two or three left.”
“Pretty even now,” Brett said confidently.
“And the shotgun is out in the open so no one is going to try to retrieve it, but let’s be careful. These are men who kill easily, the fact that they’re not running away says they’re willing to fight even with lower odds.”
A series of shots coming from two directions illustrated the point.
“Can you see where they’re coming from?” Brett asked.
Sheriff Nelson slowly raised his head above the window sill, enough to see a dirt-coated shirt sleeve behind a mound of hay about a hundred yards away. He spotted another one of the outlaws but can’t get a shot off.
‘I’m gonna stand and aim out with the rifle. I figure that will draw at least one out to shoot at me. You plug him when he’s in the open,” Brett said.
Before Sheriff Nelson could get the words out to tell Brett not to show himself, the young man was already in position and swinging the barrel of the rifle around as if seeking a target. To Nelson’s left, a man cautiously rose and started to aim. The sheriff fired twice at the half-hidden target. He knew one of the bullets struck because the outlaw’s gun flew up and his boots were soon visible and unmoving.
“One left,” Brett shouted gleefully.
“Maybe,” Nelson cautioned.
Suddenly, they heard the sound of a horse snorting, and on the far right, the mounted animal gained speed, with the rider ducked low, heading out. The lawman and the kid waited, but no further shots were fired. Brett was the first to stand; still no shots came when he was most visible through the front hole where the window once was. The kid moved cautiously to the door. Nelson covered him while Brett stood in front of the building scanning the area. The horses in the corral were calm and chickens that were scared off by the gunfire began pecking at the dry dirt nearby. The sheriff was also in plain sight but still watchful. When Brett stepped down from the porch, a pistol protruded from behind the well, and the man peeked around to aim. The Sheriff couldn’t fire in time and the outlaw’s bullet struck Brett. The boy went down. The shooter moved fast enough to get the shot off but not quick enough to avoid being a target for Nelson. As the sheriff pulled the trigger, the rider and horse came racing back. The momentary distraction threw Nelson’s aim off and his bullet hit the wooden well. Turning his attention to the rider, he fired three times, the last bullet striking, sending the horseman flying off his mount and kicking up dust as he fell hard. The last outlawand Nelson knew then all six had joined upran, leaning forward, toward his horse a good distance away, firing wildly as he moved. He was an easy target for the sheriff who needed only one shot to take the man down. The stillness was the final proof that the gunfight was over. Nelson ran toward young Brett and saw the blood flowing from a wound in the front and at the back of the boy’s shirt, reflecting a bullet through and out his flesh. Still conscious, Brett tried to get up but Sheriff Nelson gently pushed him down. Running inside the house, Nelson gathered a shirt and tore strips to wrap around the wound. Looking up, he saw a wagon moving rapidly toward the ranch, and Nelson grabbed for his rifle but soon lowered the weapon when he recognized the face of Sheriff Brown, grimacing as the wagon bounced on the rough road.
Pulling up near the cabin, Brown looked around at the dead outlaws scattered about, and said, “I couldn’t ride but I could handle a wagon. Looks like you don’t need my help.”
“I do; we need to get Brett to town and to the doctor. Wound’s bad but straight through. I’m going to bandage his side and back and we can take him to town in the wagon.”
Sheriff Brown nodded and swung the wagon around, facing out toward the road. Nelson wrapped the torn strips around Brett and lifted the boy into the back of the wagon. Brown struck the wagon horses with the reins, and all three left, Nelson following on his mare.
Sheriff Nelson stayed in Hastings for a few days. The bodies of the six men were brought to town by men Brown enlisted and Brett was healing from his injury. “He’s young,” the doc said as a statement of Brett’s likely improvement. The morning he was leaving, Nelson stopped by Sheriff Brown’s office.
“Where’s Brett?” he asked Brown.
“Mrs. Raymond in town offered to take care of him while he’s healing. I don’t think he’ll go anyway right now.”
“He could head out to the Apache camp when he’s better.”
“And he probably will. But I can’t prove he shot that man with an arrow; lots of folks have a bow. You want to take him back to your town and lock him up for the killing there?”
“No,” Nelson answered, “like you, I got no proof. I don’t think anyone will come forward to defend those men so this’ll blow over.”
As Sheriff Nelson rode out, the sun melted the lingering clouds from an overnight rainfall and the promise of a warm day was in the offing.
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