Welcome To The Bullpen
McNulty’s Revenge
Lowell “Zeke” Ziemann
A fitful night of sporadic napping passed. Before sunrise Bret McNulty rose and hurried down the long hall. Maybe Jim came home quietly during the night and would be in his room. Bret frowned at the sight of the empty bed. Hope dwindled. His stomach knotted. Jim should have returned home from Laramie two days ago.
Still in his long handles, the tall angular rancher walked out of the sprawling log ranch house and paced the veranda from end to end. He squinted into the rising sun and scanned the purple foothills that appeared to lean on the front ridge of the gray Snowy Mountains. There was no sign of an approaching rider.
“Sarah,” called Bret.
His wife stepped out onto the porch. “I know Bret, I know,” she said sympathetically, “Go find him.”
He quickly dressed, saddled his big grey and rode out on the Laramie trail. A day later, Bret found him.
Jim’s shirt was blood soaked. He lay on a grassy knoll under an old oak tree. Bret’s kid brother had crawled to that peaceful spot to die.
The pale teenager whispered his last words with staggered gasps. “That Arizona outlaw we--- the one we saw on the wanted poster---Dick Drago. It was him that done it Bret---It was Drago”. With his right hand he gripped Bret’s shirt sleeve, smiled weakly, and faded away.
The pictures lingered in his mind: The bullet hole in Jim’s stomach---the pain in his boyish face---Jim’s dun cow pony sniffing at the bloody grass---the empty canteen---the empty money belt. Soon, grief transformed into anger, anger to hate and the hate converted into vengeance.
Bret McNulty would not stay for the funeral. He took his brother’s body back to the ranch house and sent his foreman for the undertaker. He gathered a few provisions and prepared to begin his manhunt.
Bret looked at Sarah. She watched her husband pack his saddlebags. Her tears flowed---for Jim?---for Bret’s impending departure? She tightened her lips and wrinkled her forehead. She held their baby close. He could not let her stop or delay him. He knew she sensed that any protest would be useless. She forced a smile. “Bret, come back to me safely.”
He kissed his wife and baby. “I’ll be back. I promise. Sarah, I promise.” With rifle in hand, and six-gun in holster, he turned and left.
***
He had been on the trail for over two weeks. Tired, cranky, unshaven, and hungry, he rode on. Determination and growing, deepening revenge drove him.
Demons of irresponsibility, despair, and hate, wrestled for dominance in his soul. Why Jim? He was only seventeen. I should‘a gone to Laramie to get that loan, not my little brother. The only pleasant thoughts centered on Sarah and the baby. Gotta finish this business and get back home. I’ll find Dick Drago. I’m handy with a six-gun. He’s a dead man.
The tracks led south. Apparently, the killer headed back to Arizona Territory. Bret stopped at Cheyenne, Denver, and Flagstaff, and big and small towns in between. A sketched likeness of the killer adorned wanted posters that were tacked on town billboards. In every saloon where he inquired, men had seen the handbill. Every sheriff he visited knew about Drago.
Local lawmen gave conflicting reports. Some heard he passed through. Some said they hadn’t seen him. All were pleased that he didn’t stop or stay long.
A consistent description emerged: Dark scraggly beard, balding, heavy set, with wicked dark eyes, and, if riled, the most hideous intimidating scowl.
The sheriff in Wickenburg warned Bret that Dick Drago had three brothers---all bad---all killers. Two bartenders in Tucson reported that the Dragos rustled Mexican cattle to make a living, and spent most of their leisure time in Galeyville, the outlaw town where the appearance of any man wearing a star meant a certain shot in the back, and strangers often met with an unfortunate ‘accident’. The law seemed helpless, or maybe, simply unwilling.
***
Corporal Silas Amery, a Buffalo Soldier from the Tenth Colored Calvary at Fort Huachuca, carried a dispatch to Fort Grant for General Crook. The trooper sat erect in the saddle with shoulders squared. His weapons were cleaned and ready. The yellow striped blue pants were tucked into his shined boots. His cap sat straight on his head. His rain slicker was rolled neatly and tied behind his saddle. He moved along at a crisp pace. As he rode he hummed the old Spiritual tune, “Amazing Grace”
Silas smiled when he remembered the Captain’s parting words. ”Amery, glad you volunteered. You’re the man for the job. Be alert, Apache renegades all about. But get the message to Crook and come back safely.”
Confident in his abilities, his thoughts turned inward. This is where I belong. I’m a fighting man. Geronimo himself couldn’t take me. In the Tenth I’m wanted, needed, alive, and most of all I’m free.
The dull routine of Post life didn’t suit him, and made him restless. He preferred the days he scouted alone, or rode out to deliver a dispatch. Solitary rides made the bad days of his youth in Alabama fade, but they never wholly disappeared.
On the fourth day out, the Corporal boldly followed the trail into the Dragoon Mountains, home to Geronimo’s raiders. He scanned the rugged terrain, focused on the cliffs and crags and watched for a flash of sunlight ricocheting from a mirror or a lance. Rising dust in ravines or behind boulders might indicate an imminent Apache ambush.
In the late afternoon it happened. A war party of four braves rode out from a shallow creek bed and swooped down on him. Silas spurred his horse and dashed to a nearby dry arroyo, dismounted, and pulled his rifle from the scabbard and his ammunition from the pouch. Lying flat on the ground he sighted the nearest attacker and fired. One down, three to go.
The Indians pulled back out of range, They waved their guns, bows, and lances in the air as they sat on their painted ponies. They would probably wait until morning. Apaches seldom fought at night.
Two arrows protruded from his horse’s neck and a third lodged in the thrashing horse’s left flank. Silas rose and fired once to put the poor stallion out of his pain.
Now trapped, he needed to hunker down and wait for help. A scouting party of troopers from the Tenth Colored Cavalry would come looking for him when he didn’t show up at Fort Grant.
***
Bret stopped at Tombstone’s Oriental Saloon ordered a beer and asked the barkeep if he knew the whereabouts of Dick Drago. “Galeyville”, was the one word answer. Then the bartender shook his head and added, “Don’t go there alone. Dick Drago and his brothers own the town. Strangers ain’t welcome.”
McNulty paid for his beer, mounted his big grey, and started down the trail to Galeyville. This would be the end of the line for Drago-- or maybe himself. He remembered his promise to Sarah, but right now, vengeance crowded it out of his mind. This job needed doin’.
Galeyville had only one rutty road, with tents and shacks strung out on both sides. A clapboard building stood in the middle of town. Red letters spelled out “Saloon” on the sign that hung over the swinging doors. The board walk that ran in front of the saloon, rose about three feet above the dusty street.
Bret noticed a sturdy black horse tied to the rail. Initials carved into the saddle read “DD”. A long exhausting month of travel would soon culminate in a short, deadly confrontation. He walked through the door and spotted his brother’s killer talking to a fat bartender who poured whiskey into a short jigger. Bret walked to the end of the bar.
McNulty spoke slowly in deep measured tones. “I’ve been lookin’ for you Drago!”
Drago looked over his left shoulder. He weaved slightly, lifted the jigger and swallowed its contents. He seemed slightly amused. “Who the hell are you?”
Bret stepped away from the bar and took his stance. “Bret McNulty from Wyoming. You are about to pay for killing Jim, my brother.”
The bartender waddled quickly into a back room.
Drago’s eyes narrowed. His grin turned into a scowl. His gun hand rested on his belt buckle. “I have brothers too,” he warned.
“So, I’ve heard,” replied Bret.
“Yer brother shoud’a just gimme the money, then I wouldn’t’ have plugged him,” snarled the outlaw.
Bret drew his six-gun. “Time for talkin’ is over Drago.”
Drago whirled. He flung his hat at McNulty, drew his gun and fired. The shot stung McNulty’s side. McNulty fired and hit Drago between the eyes. The outlaw crashed backwards into the bar, knocked a bottle on the floor and slowly folded into a crumpled heap on the foot rail.
Bret breathed a sigh of relief. His vendetta completed, he turned, hurried out of the saloon, mounted the grey and galloped out of town. His wounded side was bleeding, but the bullet had not lodged in his body. He knew Drago’s brothers would be on his trail sooner rather than later.
Darkness enveloped the desert, but a full moon aided
Bret’s escape and allowed him to ride northeast with little difficulty.
As he topped a low ridge, the echo of a gunshot caused Bret to rein in abruptly. He peered into the semi- darkness and made out a large man in a small ravine standing over his fallen horse. He heard a coyote yelp in the distance---or an Indian? Should I skirt the area and he ride on? The man in the ravine holstered his pistol and leaned against his dead horse. Apparently the horse was being used as a bulwark.
McNulty spurred the grey and galloped toward the ravine. He slid out of the saddle, tied his horse to a shrub behind a boulder and grabbed his rifle. Bending low he dashed toward the man and dove into the narrow gully.
A black Buffalo Soldier lying in the ravine whirled around with clenched fists. “Who are you?”
“McNulty, from Wyoming,” he said, throwing both hands in the air. He gasped for breath. “You need help?”
“Do y’all want to get scalped?” asked the smiling black man.
McNulty shrugged. “I know. I’m a damn fool.”
The soldier gave a crisp salute. “Corporal Silas Amery, Tenth Colored Cavalry, from Fort Huachuca. Welcome to my stockade sir.”
Bret rolled to his knees. “What the hell are you doin’ out here alone?”
“Well Sir, Ah planned on deliverin’ a dispatch to General Crook over in Fort Grant. Now, I’m just tryin’ to save my hide. Apache war party out there. ‘Spect they will wait now ‘til mornin’ before they charge. Where were y’all headed?”
“Anywhere out of here---I just killed an outlaw named Dick Drago over in Galeyville.”
“You killed a Drago? Trouble must be yer middle name. Now yer gonna have to kill his kin, three brothers---hard men, killers. Troopers are told to stay clear of Galeyville.”
Silas noticed the crimson stain on Bret’s shirt. “Sir, y’all is bleedin’.”
“Just a scratch---I’ll be alright.”
Amery searched through his saddle bags and came up with a cloth for a bandage. Bret removed his soiled shirt and Silas wrapped the cloth around Bret’s waist to cover the wound.
Bret studied the black soldier. His robust chest strained against his blue army blouse. The rolled up sleeves revealed powerful fence-post-like arms. This Goliath of a man is either fearless or wholly reckless to be traveling through the Dragoons alone. Most likely, his calm boldness is a result of surviving many earlier Apache scraps. Without a doubt, Silas Amery is game, as game as they come. Bret gained a new confidence.
The big man took off his cap revealing a shaved head. “Come mornin’, we’ll drive off these renegades and get you on your way. The Dragos won’t wait. They’ll be comin’ fer ya.
The night turned peaceful, but wary men do not sleep. Silas took his eyes off of the horizon. He looked at Bret. “You got family?”
“Wife and girl back on my ranch in Wyoming---You?”
“The Army is mah family. Ah ‘scaped from Alabam before the war and joined up. Now it’s bacon, beans, hay, and forty miles a day.”
Bret laughed.
“Mah advice, Mister McNulty sir, is that ya’ll ride on. But if you are set on stayin’ ah’d be much obliged fer the help.”
Bret looked at the trooper. “I’ll be privileged to stay. The Dragos won’t ride into this Indian hornet nest.”
Quiet and ominous, the night dragged on. When occasional clouds passed by the moon, a man could get a good look at the surrounding desert. The rest of the night they took turns. One slept while the other scanned the landscape.
As soon as the sun peeked over the mountains, Silas tapped Bret’s shoulder. He pointed with his rifle and whispered. “Those tumbleweed bushes off to the left were not there yesterday.”
The Corporal raised his rifle and fired into the nearest bush. An Apache gave out a loud cry, raised up, stumbled sideways and collapsed. Immediately, two more charged at them from a set-up brush pile not more than twenty yards away. Bret turned his rifle on one and fired. The brave ran forward three or four steps, sunk to his knees, then fell on his face into the dust and lay still.
The last renegade charged, screamed an eerie war cry, reached the trench, leaped on Silas and stabbed the big man’s arm with a knife. Bret swung his rifle and clubbed the Indian on the back of the head, then drew his pistol and shot the brave at point blank range. Suddenly there was silence.
Bret looked at Silas. The trooper’s muscular left arm bled from the knife cut. Bret pushed up the trooper’s sleeve and used his neckerchief to wrap the arm.
“Lord ‘a Mercy,” said Silas. “Ah moved too slow. Must be gettin’ old.”
“You’ll be alright,” said Bret. “We’ll ride double out of here.”
“Ah got me a better idea,” said Silas. “The Dragos will be along soon. I’m gonna bury you.”
“What?”
“I’m gonna plant you right here next to mah horse.”
“You’re loco.”
“No sir. Ah’ll give you a new bandage. We’ll take off the bloody one you’re wearin’ and your scarf that’s red with my blood---and you leave your hat. Get a move on now. Grab mah shovel quick, and dig a grave, then get on your way. I’ll tell the Dragos that Apaches struck and you was killed. They’ll just have to go back to Galeyville.”
“What if they don’t believe you?”
“They’ll see your hat on the grave, three dead Apaches, yer bloody scarf and the bloody bandages, and ah’l bet they’ll buy it. Doubt if they can tell the difference ‘tween blood of a black Buffalo trooper and blood from a white Wyomin’ rancher.” Silas chuckled at his comparison.
Bret rose to his feet and looked directly into the black man’s eyes. “The Dragos might throw down on you.”
“Ah doubt it. Killin’ me would bring thirty troopers from the Fort after ‘em. They’re smart enough to know that that surely ain’t gonna do ‘em no good.”
Unconvinced Bret shook his head. “No. I’ll stay with you and you can help me fight ‘em. You don’t have a horse. How will you get out?”
Silas sent a no-nonsense look directly at the rancher. He spoke like a General, not a Corporal, giving a new recruit a direct command. “No! Ah’m tellin’ you, dig! Ah’ll walk to Tombstone and telegraph Fort Huachuca. Now dammit, dig! That’s an order!”
Bret shrugged and grabbed the shovel. He dug, paused and thought---my own grave?
Silas gathered rocks to put on the long shallow hole as he scanned the ridge to the west watching for the Dragos.
“Fine looking grave,” said Silas. “Now get out of here. Go home to your wife and youngin’.”
Bret ran to his horse, mounted and then threw Silas the beef jerky that he carried in his saddlebags.
After he rode a few feet, Bret stopped, turned and stood up in the stirrups. He gave Corporal Silas Amery a long deliberate, smart salute. “Adios my good friend,” he
said. Then he wheeled the grey around and galloped off to the north.
Sarah and the baby would be waiting.
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