The Legend of William Carsell

Chapter One: The Ordnance

A wooden sign on the outskirts boasted 531 souls.

Below it, another sign was posted:

Ordnance.

No carrying of guns allowed in town limits.

Order of Mayor,

Hon. T. Dawkins.

He laughed crazily on his horse and proceeded to shoot the sign to pieces. His sorrel reared its front legs at the sound of the gunfire and whinnied its fear and disapproval, but it did not unseat its rider.

NOBODY saw him ride into the darkening town.

Sandy Ridge was bathed in a warm August twilight as sagebrush was tossed in the gentle breeze down the main street. The exaggerated gait of the sorrel reflected the weariness of both rider and horse.

He dismounted outside Monty’s Saloon and tethered Barrabus to the rail. He took his rifle from its sling and tucked it under his right arm. Looking disinterestedly about him, he walked through the saloon’s swing doors.

A few unshaven cowboys were crowded round the bar and there were a few townspeople playing poker at a couple of the tables.

Whisky.

The barman was about to pour a generous amount into a short thick glass when the stranger stopped him, by gripping his pouring arm.

I’ll take the bottle. He tossed a couple of coins onto the counter and walked to the far corner of the room, took off his Stetson and sat down. Laying his Sharps rifle across the table, he deposited his bottle and glass.

It was quite an entrance. There were no others in the saloon bearing arms, and his stature and manner made him stand out, literally head and shoulders above his peers.

Running his hand purposefully through his lank black hair, he took a deep breath. He gave out a mournful but almost silent sigh and poured himself a full glass of whisky.

One of the cowboys drinking at the bar took a long look at the stranger and left the saloon. He was on a mission.

Across the street was the sheriff’s office. The cowboy ran inside to be greeted by the incumbent, Daniel T. Rutter.

Hi, Bill, what’s up?

A stranger has just rode into town, Sheriff, fully armed. He’s in the saloon, drinkin’ whisky.

Withers was the town blabbermouth and busybody. Nothing went by Bill without it being reported to the sheriff.

The two deputies present grinned and winked at Rutter.

Okay, Bill. Thanks for tellin’ us. We’ll give him a few minutes to report in to us, then we’ll go looking for him.

Withers nodded and went back to the saloon.

Doc Matthews saw Bill return.

You kin guess where he’s been, he drawled, nodding in Withers’ direction.

Yup, acknowledged Slim Ratcliffe. Doin’ ’is public duty and reporting a misdemeanour.

Both men laughed, and continued playing cards.

†

He was on his fourth glass of whisky when they came in. Daniel T. Rutter had sent his two deputies to investigate the new arrival.

The man did not look up as they approached his table.

Hey, you! one of the deputies, name of Brad Dawson, called out.

Ignoring them, the stranger poured out another glass of whisky.

Are you deef!? screamed Dillon Walker, Brad’s fellow deputy.

Now the man looked up.

You talking to me?

Who the hell else?

Is there a problem? The man’s voice was deep and menacing.

Didn’t you see the sign when you rode into town? shouted Brad indignantly.

Yeh, the stranger said slowly. Apparently this town has a population of five hundred and thirty-one folk livin’ here.

Not that one, stupid, Dillon retorted. The one that says no firearms are permitted in Sandy Ridge. You have to hand them in to the sheriff. There’s an ordnance in force.

I’m afraid that won’t be possible, came the calm reply.

Sensing trouble, two of the cowboys drinking at the bar swiftly left the saloon. The poker players put down their cards and watched in dumbed silence.

What did you say? screamed Brad.

"Now – I think it’s you that must be deaf, said the stranger, threateningly. I said I’m afraid that won’t be possible."

Dillon looked confused. What d’ya mean – it won’t be possible?

"Simple, deputy. I’m saying it won’t be possible for you to take my guns from me."

Before either deputy could pull out a gun, the rifle was in his hands. Now, why don’t you gentlemen convey that message to the sheriff?

The two men looked startled. It was obvious that this stranger was not in the mood to back down. He had the drop on them. No point in arguing, so they slowly backed out of the saloon, one of them muttering, We’ll be back.

†

What’s this guy look like? demanded Daniel T. Rutter when they returned.

B – big guy, stammered Brad.

Cold eyes, offered Dillon.

Got long black hair and a scruffy beard, added Brad.

Yeh – and he’s wearin’ a long black leather coat, black shirt and matchin’ britches, continued Walker.

Rutter took a pull on his moustache. Mmm. Sounds like someone I’ve heard of…

Who’s that, Sheriff? quizzed Brad.

Rutter made no answer. Let’s go check him out…

†

The saloon had emptied considerably since the stranger’s initial confrontation with the deputies. Those that remained were just plain curious, suicidal – or drunk.

Rutter had instructed his deputies to be calm, keep their hands away from their guns, and to follow his lead.

The three lawmen approached the stranger’s table.

The newcomer did not look up. He just kept drinking.

Rutter was the first to speak. Hey, Mister, I’d like a word with you.

No response.

Rutter continued. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the law around here. We’ve got a rule in Sandy Ridge that says no one except the sheriff and his appointed deputies are allowed to carry firearms.

Now the man did look up. He poured himself another glass of whisky, nearly emptying the bottle. So your deputies were sayin’...

Rutter felt uncommonly nervous. Well, I’ll thank you to hand over your firearms.

He took a sip of his whisky. As I explained to your deputies, that won’t be possible.

The sheriff flinched. You’d better explain why you’re intent on defyin’ the law.

A devilish grin broke the weatherworn features.

Okay, sheriff. To my way of thinkin’ this law applies to your resident townsfolk. Me – I’m just passin’ through. I’ve just had a long ride to get here and I’m plain tuckered out. In the mornin’ I will have finished my business here and I’ll be movin’ on.

That’s as maybe, drawled Rutter. Passin’ through or not, I’ll still thank you for your guns.

The stranger put down his glass. He looked threateningly at the sheriff. I don’t think you heard me – that won’t be possible. You see, these here guns are the tools of my trade. I never part with them. If I did, there might be some of your good townsfolk who might like to take a pot shot at me.

Recognition suddenly dawned upon Rutter.

I know who you are, don’t I? You’re Damien Luther, the bounty hunter.

Brad Dawson gasped. What – the hombre who never brings in anyone alive?

The very same, confirmed Rutter.

The stranger’s grin remained fixed. Now you’ve got me all wrong, Sheriff. I’m merely a collector of souls, that’s all.

Rutter backed away from the table, as did his deputies. You’re not welcome here, Luther. I want you to leave Sandy Ridge right now.

The bounty hunter was on his feet. He pulled aside the right hand length of his leather coat to expose his six-gun. My information leads me to believe you’re a married man, Sheriff. I don’t think your wife was expecting to be a widow quite so soon, was she?

Faster than the eye could blink his Smith & Wesson was in his hand. Drop your gunbelts.

The three lawmen complied.

"Now, you’re like your townsfolk – not carrying weapons. That’s what I call setting a good example. I’ll bring your guns to you in the morning with the body of a killer in order to collect the appropriate bounty. Now – git!"

The humiliated sheriff and his two deputies left the saloon, not daring to utter a word, heads bowed.

The people left in the saloon were in awe of him. He walked up to the barman and said, I’d like a room for the night.

Y – yes, sir. The barman passed over a key. Top door on the right.

He threw some more coins on the bar. Get someone to take care of my horse for the night. It’s the sorrel outside.

And with that, he picked up the lawmen’s guns and walked upstairs…

†

The sky was cloudless when he rode out that morning. No breeze, just the dust rising to the clatter of Barrabus’s hooves.

The high peaks of the Nevada landscape were all that interrupted the skyline as he steered his horse in an easterly direction.

After a few miles he came upon the ranch, nestled in a small valley. He drew his horse to a standstill, reached inside his coat and took out a Wanted notice. The rugged features of one Uriah Marsden stared out at him: $1,500, dead or alive.

Marsden had a high price on his head because he had killed several marshals who had been in pursuit of him before he had disappeared without a trace.

Luther took out a spyglass and put it to his left eye. He first caught sight of two small children – a boy and a girl – playing with hoops outside the main cabin. Then he noticed a small number of unbroken horses in a dilapidated corral. To the right of that was a dark-haired woman hanging out some washing. No sign of anyone else, just smoke steadily rising from the chimneystack of the log cabin.

He moved Barrabus slowly forward, down the gentle incline that led to the homestead.

The woman greeted him with a smile. Good morning, can I help you?

Mrs. Marsden?

Two curious children joined them.

No, the name’s Sanders.

He looked uncertain. Oh. I was told a man called Marsden lived here.

Well, I’m afraid your information is wrong. We’ve lived here for a year and no one of that name has passed through.

Who is it, Martha? A man came out of the cabin, carrying a rifle.

There was no mistaking him. This was certainly Marsden, complete with the unmistakable scar down his left cheek.

Luther wasted no time and gunned the man down in cold blood. His widow screamed, and the children ran over to their stricken father.

Ma! Ma! they cried in unison. He’s killed him! He’s killed pa!

The poor woman fainted. Luther dismounted his startled sorrel, and walked over to the body. He picked up the corpse, brushing the children aside. He threw Marsden’s lifeless body over the back of the horse and tied it down with some rope. The boy tried to attack him, but he knocked him senseless with one punch. The girl just stood there, shaking, and shedding floods of tears.

In a moment he was gone, heading in the direction of Sandy Ridge.

†

Daniel T. Rutter was standing outside his office when he rode in.

Luther spat out some chaw tobacco as he pulled up his mount. The sheriff walked over to view the corpse.

He looked up at the bounty hunter and declared:

You’ve done it this time! That’s Josh Sanders you’ve just killed.

Luther dismounted and shoved the Wanted poster under the sheriff’s nose. No it ain’t. Take a look at that. You’ve been sheltering wanted criminals from the Law. Why don’t you do your job properly?

Rutter was flummoxed. I had no idea…

No matter. Give me my money and I’ll be on my way.

Rutter protested. I don’t have that kind o’ money in my office. We’ll have to go over to the bank.

Luther nodded. Let’s go.

Oscar Dobson was a short fat man with beady eyes. He had been manager of the Sandy Ridge office of Howard’s Bank for three years.

When the two men came in, he was surprised by the prodigious presence of Damien Luther. Six feet five inches tall, he was certainly not to be trifled with.

I need fifteen hundred dollars. I’ll give you a note, Rutter muttered.

Oscar gave out a low whistle.

Give me a couple of minutes – I’ll have to get it out of the safe. And he scurried away.

Within a short space of time he was back counting the notes. Luther thrust them into his coat and strolled out into the bright sunshine.

Just at that moment a buckboard was seen coming down the main street driven by a dark-haired woman. She pulled up fast and picked up a rifle. She pointed it at Luther and fired, missing by a mile. The sheriff ran out just in time to see the bounty hunter draw his gun. Before the woman could fire again, he shot the woman’s horse. The buckboard pitched forward as the horse collapsed, throwing the woman to the ground.

Stupid bitch! snarled Luther. Turning to the sheriff, he thrust some single dollar notes in his hand. Here, give this to her for her horse.

He walked over to his sorrel, dumped the body to the ground, mounted it, and threw the sheriff’s and deputies’ guns onto the sidewalk. I’ll be seein’ you.

Chapter Two: The Reunion

Luther decided to resist the temptation to head northwards to Carson City and Virginia City, but to turn southwards towards Tonopah. That was over a hundred miles away, so he would stop at Colston Creek, a growing, bustling township where he knew he could find a bed for the night.

It was dusk when he arrived there – and rowdy. The Great Western Railway still had a long way to go before it reached this staging post, which was mostly lawless and lacking a sheriff who could stay alive long enough to draw his pension. It was the Year of Our Lord 1869.

He dismounted outside. In the street guns, were going off, drunken cowboys letting off steam, no self-respecting women to be seen. It was growing dark, but the street was illuminated by a bundle of old furniture that some idiot had set fire to outside a tumbledown old forge. Barrabus was restless and frightened, so he took the horse to the safe refuge of a livery nearby.

Then he entered the saloon.

Damien! a woman’s voice cried out. He turned to see Polly Winters approaching him. Where have you been, honey? I ain’t seen you in ages!

She threw her arms about him.

The saloon was packed. A roulette table was keenly attended by a number of notable townspeople, dressed up to impress, a number of tables had poker games or faro on the go, and the bar was crammed with cowboys who had just brought a herd into town on a drive towards Carson City where there was a railhead.

Been away on business, was his curt reply to her. Miss me?

He looked at her. She was only twenty years old, but she appeared to have the years and experience of a woman twice that age. Dressed in red crinoline, wrapped round her hourglass figure, she was certainly a beauty. She tossed her blonde hair provocatively at him and gave him a big kiss.

Who wouldn’t? he said dryly. Want a drink?

She nodded. He put his arm around her and pushed his way to the bar.

Some of the men raised their voices about his rough manner, but when they saw the size of the man and his threatening stance, they soon backed off.

A bottle of whisky and two glasses, he demanded roughly of the bartender.

He walked over to a table that was occupied by two drunken cowboys and said, The lady would like a seat. He handed the bottle and glasses to Polly.

Who says? snapped one of the men. Anyways, she ain’t no lady. The other one guffawed.

Wrong answer! They regretted their actions almost immediately. Grabbing the two men by the scruff of their necks, he propelled them across the floor. Then he swept their drinks off the table. The gun was in his hand before they could find their holsters. At the sight of his weapon, the men scarpered and headed straight to the bar area.

Not much notice was taken of this incident, such was the noise in the place. A couple of the roulette attendees looked around, but that was all. Luther motioned Polly to take a seat, and he bit off the cork from the bottle of whisky.

She had not been fazed by his aggressive antics. She had seen it all before – not only from him but also from many of her other conquests.

What brings you to Colston Creek at this time of night? she asked with a grin.

I need a bed for the night, he said, matter-of-factly.

And you thought you might share mine? she suggested, teasingly.

I hadn’t anticipated that, but now you come to mention it...

There was no need to complete the sentence. She could see the mischievous look in his eye.

You’ve got a nerve, Damien Luther! You leave a girl high and dry three months ago, and then come back as though you’d only been away for a few hours. Now she was teasing him, and she knew how he would react.

Three months? Was it that long?

He poured her another whisky. The first one had disappeared in a gulp.

How long are you staying this time? enquired Polly, downing her second drink. He poured her another.

Dunno. A few days, maybe a week.

That long? And then what?

A man’s got to earn a livin’.

Huh. She eyed him suspiciously. When do you think you’ll make an honest woman of me?

Is that possible?

She gave him a playful punch on the arm. You certainly know how to turn a girl’s head.

Luther shouted to the bartender. Another bottle of whisky, barkeep. He poured the contents of the first bottle into their glasses as the bartender delivered their second.

Polly noticed Luther paid him from a thick wad of notes, which he had recently received from one Daniel T. Rutter.

Do you want a cigar? He produced a couple of long cheroots from inside his jacket.

Don’t mind if I do.

He struck a match on the edge of the table, lighting hers and then his. So… have I got a bed for the night, or do I look elsewhere?

Do I have a choice? She puffed on her cigar.

He eyed her suspiciously. Sure you do.

In that case, you’re more than welcome to share mine…

At that moment, two gunmen entered the saloon. They were tall, mean looking and unshaven. As soon as Polly saw them, she said to Luther, Excuse me a moment…

Before he could utter a word, she was up from her seat and approaching the two men. She said something to one of them, at which the other man laughed. Then she returned to Luther.

What was all that about? He chewed angrily on his cheroot.

Polly grinned mischievously. Why do you want to know?

Don’t play games with me, he said angrily.

Relax, she said. See the good lookin’ one on the right – he’s my brother.

Luther’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. I didn’t know you had a brother.

You don’t know everythin’ about me, said Polly, secretively. He’s my half-brother, if you want to know. Same mother, different father.

I get it, said Luther. You mean your mother was a whore, just like you.

Polly was too drunk to take offence. She was not sure whether Luther was serious or just joshin’.

She decided the latter, and started to laugh. She was spilling most of her drink.

Come on, he said, let’s get you to bed. And he lifted her to her feet. She fell into him, hardly able to stand.

At that point, one of the two men she had befriended walked over to them. Hey –what do you think you’re doin’ with my sister?

Luther lowered Polly back into her chair. What’s your problem, friend? he drawled. Without blinking an eye, he stubbed his cheroot out on the back of the man’s hand.

The man’s jaw dropped open. Who the hell – and what the hell – are you?

He did not see it coming. The huge fist smashed into his jaw, propelling him halfway across the room, knocking over several tables – most of them occupied.

Good choice of words, said Luther, ignoring the commotion around him. He caught Polly by the arm and slung her over his shoulder as though she was a pair of saddlebags. Then he marched up the stairs to her room. By now, the noise in the street had subsided. The drunken revelry had given way to a strange silence that was almost as eerie as it was for the suddenness by which it had taken hold.

Luther had splashed Polly’s face with water from an enamel bowl in an effort to sober her up. When that failed, he poured coffee down her from a small stove she had in her room. Eventually, she came round.

He opened a window and looked out in the street.

No one about except a few drunks sleeping it off in doorways.

Polly was holding her head and groaning.

You drank that whisky too fast, mumbled Luther.

Look who was pouring it out...

I don’t like your brother.

He probably doesn’t like you.

He doesn’t now. He’s minus a few teeth.

What happened?

You were out of it. He objected to me taking you to bed.

You didn’t kill him?

Nah. You’re all right. He’s still breathin’.

Now that Polly was at least aware of what was going on around her, the bounty hunter started undressing her before throwing her on her bed. Then he had stripped off himself and was upon her...

†

It was about three in the morning when he heard their spurs.

Polly was in a dead sleep beside him as he reached for his Smith & Wesson at the side of his bed.

As soon as the door flew open, the gun was in his hand, spewing lead.

His two would-be assailants flew backwards under the hail of bullets.

Polly woke up with a scream as he leapt out of his bed to make sure his assailants were dead.

They were.

Polly joined him as he gazed down at their bodies.

You’ve killed Jake! she screamed at him as she cast here eyes on the deceased. What did you do that fer?

That your brother? Why do ya think? He approached the corpses and kicked the guns out of their hands,

Some people had come out of adjoining rooms to see what was going on, but, on seeing the bodies and Luther, shot back into their rooms again.

Luther pushed Polly back into their room, ignoring the fallen men, and closed the bedroom door with a bang.

Those hombres came up here to kill me, stated the bounty hunter, and possibly you.

No, not me, argued Polly. Jake wouldn’t have hurt me. He probably came up here to get even after you hit him earlier.

Do you think me a fool? He had someone else with him who I ain’t seen before. That other guy had no quarrel with me. They were after somethin’ else. Did you tell your brother I was carryin’ a wad of money?

She looked frightened. No, Luther. I…

Liar!

He struck her across the mouth, sending her sprawling back onto her bed. She was lucky he had used the flat of his hand, and not his fist.

You put those two bastards up to this, you little hussy. You’re lucky you’re just a worthless whore, or I would have filled you full of lead as well!

He was dressing as he spoke.

Polly just shrunk back in the bed, not daring to utter a word.

When he was fully clothed, he threw a gold dollar coin at her.

Here, he drawled, I’m sorry I couldn’t stay long enough to get my money’s worth.

Chapter Three: Tonapah Mission

Tonopah Springs, later the site of one of the richest boom towns in the West, was an Indian campground for many years, long before a certain would-be miner spent a chilly night here.

The community that settled in the area in 1900 arose as a result of gold and silver-rich ore being discovered accidentally by a prospector called Jim Butler, who was initially looking for a lost burro that he owned. According to legend, the burro had wandered off during the night and sought shelter near a rock outcropping. When Butler discovered the animal the next morning, he picked up a rock to throw at the beast, but instead noticed the rock was unusually heavy. He had stumbled upon the second-richest silver strike in Nevada history.

However, when Damien Luther set off in the small