Three Dark Riders

By Stan Dryer

The bright autumn day seemed to darken when the three riders entered Dustville. They were all dressed in black and riding three grey horses. As they trotted, three-abreast, down our main street, they rode with a hostile insolence, as if, by their presence, they possessed the town.

I was sitting outside my office, enjoying the fine weather and having a quiet smoke. The riders pulled up in front of me and stared down at me from their saddles. I did a quick inventory of the trio. They all wore heavy hardware with their holsters tied down, an indication they were not particularly interested in resolving differences of opinion through friendly conversation.

“You the sheriff?” asked the tallest of the three. His face and eyes told me he was part Injun, most likely half Apache. He spoke in a gravelly whisper with a voice like the mean edge of a rusty knife.

“Yes,” I said. “Welcome to Dustville. If you plan to stay in town, you’re going to have to check your weaponry with me.”

The tall man looked at the closer of his two companions. “You hear that, Chico?” he said. “A man without a gun in sight wants us to hand him our hardware. What do you think?”

“We gun him down now, Indigo,” Chico replied. There was no warm lilt of friendship in his Mexican drawl.

“What do you think, Little Bart?” Indigo asked the third rider. This young gentleman was probably pure Anglo. His face was a little less hardened than his two companions, but it didn’t invite friendly companionship.

“You said not to kill anyone till they knew why they were going to die,” he said.

“Right,” Indigo said. “I’ll make it fast.” He turned back to me. “We’re Bart Slanker’s three sons.”

I could believe that statement. Slanker had been a hombre not particular as to who he killed and had probably been equally careless as to where he planted his seed. “So what’s your business?” I said.

“We’re here to avenge our father’s death. You the one who killed him?”

“If you’re referring to the gent we called Blackheart Bart hereabouts, I didn’t kill him. He ran into a lot of rattlesnakes in a cave where he was hiding and died from their bites. I just brought his body back to town.”

“You left town to hunt him down, and you brought his body back. That makes you his killer in our eyes.”

I didn’t bother to remind them Bart was an escaped convicted murderer when I went hunting him down.

“Now he know,” said Chico. “We gun him down now?”

Before Indigo could answer, a shout came from across the street. “I’d think twice about that.” We all looked over to the boardwalk in front of Dan’s Hardware and Dry Goods Emporium where Dan was standing in his work apron holding a double barreled shotgun.

Indigo twisted his mouth into a mean little grin. “Brothers, are we going to get all frightened up over an old man who probably is bluffing us with an unloaded gun?” he said to his companions.

“Grouse,” I said.

“What?”

“Grouse. Dan is awful good at shooting grouse. They pop up in front of you, fifty feet into the air. Dan tracks them and picks them off. Usually gets two of them, one per barrel. Those birds are a lot smaller than a man, they are moving fast and they’re a goodly distance farther away than you three hombres are from that definitely loaded shotgun.”

The three brothers looked at each other. For the first time, there seemed to be a bit of doubt in their eyes.

“Sheriff, hold up your hat!” A second shout came from down the street. I took a look. There was Nancy Turgis, my rancher friend, sitting on her big old horse and holding a rifle. She was a good hundred feet away.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I shouted back.

“Those three came riding by the ranch. They looked like trouble, so I followed them in. Hold up your hat.”

I had an inkling of what she was up to. I took off my hat, held it by the brim over my head as far as I could reach. There was a single shot. I felt the hat jerk a bit. I took it down and looked at it. There was a small hole in the dead center of the top of the hat. I showed the hat and the hole to the three brothers.

“Mierda,” Chico said to Indigo.“ You told us this town’s full of peace-hugging nesters.”

“Guess not,” Indigo said. He took his weapon slowly out of its holster, grasped it by the barrel and handed it down to me. He nodded to his two companions who did the same.

“Looks like you won round one,” he said to me. It was very obvious he would be thinking up round two in the nearby future.

“Make yourself at home in Dustville,” I said to the trio. I pointed down the street to the Lazy Mañana. “Saloon’s down there. Watered whiskey, bad food and hard beds. Best place in town.”

The three of them turned their horses around and rode off towards the saloon. I took their three revolvers inside and locked them up in the gun case. As I finished, the door opened. In came Nancy, a little satisfied smile lighting her face.

“I have a bit of a grievance,” I said to her. “You just ruined my five dollar hat.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be thanking me for saving your ass?” she replied.

“Well, I thought Dan had already done that,” I said, “but I suppose having a bit of redundancy in my backup was a good idea. I’m just wondering if you could have demonstrated your marksmanship in a way that didn’t destroy headgear.”

“Sorry,” Nancy said. “Next time I’ll just ask you to hold up your hand.”

“I get your point. Next time we’ll stick to the hat.”

“Just who in tarnation are those three?” Nancy asked. “And what kind of a grudge do they have against you?”

“Those are Blackheart Bart’s three sons,” I said.

“Here to avenge Daddy’s death?”

“Yup.”

Nancy frowned. “And you didn’t persuade them otherwise?”

“Nope.”

“So what do you suppose they’ll think up next time?”

“I have no idea. Guess I’ll just have to wait and see.”

So I waited. The three brothers spent the next couple of days in the Lazy Mañana, quiet and friendly like. They occasionally bought drinks for everyone but mostly just sat and listened to the town gossip. On the third day, they showed up in front of my office, saddled up and ready to ride.

“Guess we’ll take our hardware back and be on our way,” Indigo said. He had a little smile on his face that told me he and his brothers were not about to quietly disappear.

I got the guns out of the safe and handed all three to Indigo. “As a safety precaution, I unloaded your weaponry,” I said. “You and Chico take the guns and head out of town. Wait a mile or so outside. I’ll give Bart Junior here the ammo and he can follow you out. That way there won’t be a chance of an accident happening here in town.”

Indigo nodded and took the revolvers. He and Chico rode off. I waited about ten minutes, then gave the ammunition to Bart Junior who followed them out of town.

Everything was nice and peaceful after that until the next afternoon. I was sitting in my office sifting through some wanted posters when the front window exploded and a rock landed at my feet. I got out the front door quick as a rattler strike, but all I could see was a distant rider heading out of town at a goodly canter.

I came back inside and picked up the rock. There was a note tied around it. It was in pencil and read as follows:

IF YOU WANT TO EVER SEE YOUR LADY-LOVE ALIVE AGAIN, COME OUT TO THE OLD ALABASTER PLACE. BRING YOUR SIDEARM AND COME ALONE.

That message was a puzzler for a couple of reasons. First of all, who in tarnation was my lady-love? I’d had several locals of the female persuasion make overtures of affection, baiting me with eatables of varying quality. But none of them or their food rang my chow bell of long-time devotion. I’d had my eye on a couple of other local ladies, but my efforts to round up one of them had always drawn a blank.

Well, I told myself, no need to ponder much over who it is. She obviously needs to be rescued, and I’ll learn her name soon enough.

The other strange part was the invite to come armed. Usually, in cases like this, side arms are prohibited, not requested.   

It was pushing on towards evening, but I figured I shouldn’t wait until morning. I put together a few necessities and buckled on my favorite Colt. I saddled up and mounted Arizona and was about to leave town when up rode Nancy Turgis all in a fluster.

“Sheriff,” she almost shouted, “you’ve got to put together a posse. Marilyn has gone missing.”

“Marilyn the schoolmarm?”

“Yes. When the kids got to the school this morning she wasn’t there. Mother McDever, where she boards, says she left to walk to the schoolhouse at seven this morning.”

That bit of information explained the probable identity of my supposed lady-love, but it didn’t help my present predicament. I considered whether I should tell Nancy about the rock and the note, but decided not to. Nancy tends to be a bit impulsive in such situations. Going in with guns blazing would kill the three brothers, but also might do in our only schoolmarm along in the bargain.

I thought fast. “I just got word someone’s got shot out at the Farnham spread. I’ve got to check on it. As soon as I get back, I’ll come help look for Marilyn.”

I didn’t wait for an answer, but spurred my horse and headed north out of town. Farnham’s ranch was right on the way to the old Alabaster place.

Old man Alabaster had given up and headed east when we had that drought some five years ago. There wasn’t much left of the ranch house, but the barn was still upright, waiting for the first good wind storm to take it down.

The three brothers were standing in front of the barn when I rode up. I dismounted and walked over to the trio.

“If you plan to spend time here,” Indigo said, “you’re going to have to check that gun with me, at least for a while.” That might be his idea of humor, but no one was laughing.

I handed over my Colt.

“Now here’s how it’s going to work,” Indigo continued. “I figured gunning you down would make us look a mite cowardly and probably rile up the U.S. Marshall over in Dismal Flats. So we’re going to do it the honest western way. You’ll go head to head with the each of us first thing tomorrow. If you gun all of us down, you can set your lady-love free. If you don’t, we’ll let her go anyway. You’ll pass into The Great Beyond a happy man knowing the love of your life is all safe and sound.”

I thought that one over. I wasn’t worried about going up against Bart, but Chico and Indigo were a different cut. I didn’t have to look to see how many notches they had on their guns to smell tough trouble ahead. “Guess you’re making the rules,” I said.

“Thought you’d see it that way,” Indigo said. He turned to Chico. “Tie him up on the other chair.”

The other chair turned out to be a half broken rocker sitting next to a slightly more stable straight-back to which was tied a very angry schoolmarm. I don’t know who teaches knots in Mexico, but Chico must have been first in his class. There was not going to be any getting loose. The rocker had apparently been pegged to the dirt floor of the barn so there was no way I could wiggle around to loosen up Marilyn. Neither one of us was gagged, but that gave us no advantage. The best we could do with screaming for help would be to summon up a curious coyote or two.

As soon as Chico left, I turned to Marilyn. “You don’t have anything to be frightened about,” I said. “Whatever happens, you go free.”

“I’m not frightened,” she said, “I’m just angry with myself, thinking I got you into this.”

I took a longer look at Marilyn. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, not tied up in a schoolmarm knot atop her head. Her face was smudged but showed no sign of tears. There was no fear in her eyes, just a look of hard determination.

I had thought of her previous as someone who would make a kindly wife. Now my feelings were a bit different. This is one gutsy woman, I said to myself.

“Well, I’ve been in tight corners before and always figured a way out,” I said, wishing I could believe my own words.

“I think I better tell you why I got you into this,” Marilyn said.

“How’s that?”

“I’ll be honest. A year or so ago, I decided to set my cap for you.”

That bucked me loose from what I’d been thinking. “I’m flattered,” I said after a pause, “but how did that secret desire end up getting you here as sheriff bait?”

“In a foolish moment, I told Mabel Hardscram about my feelings towards you.”

Telling anything to Mabel, our town’s top gossip, is the equivalent of putting it on the front page of the Dustville Weekly Chronicle.

“So everyone in town but me knew about your marrying intents?”

“I guess so.”

“So you and I were probably a topic of discussion down at the Lazy Mañana when these three friendly brothers were listening in.”

“Most likely.”

“That explains a lot. But something’s puzzling me,” I said. “I’ve had this hankering for a long time to get to know you better. I saw my big chance at the Jamboree last winter. As I recall, I asked you for a dance and you turned me down.”

“I had to. Sidewinder Jenkins had asked me to dance with him. I accepted, not knowing how liquored up he was. You know how he gets with the drink in him.”

“I do.” Sidewinder is normally a pussycat; he’d go out of his way to avoid stepping on a cockroach. But when he is on a bender, he tends a bit towards the aggressive. If Marilyn had started dancing with me, there would have been an altercation, hopefully only fisticuffs, but still an altercation.

“I danced with him till he got so wobbly he had to quit, so I dumped him at the bar,” Marilyn said. “Then I went looking for you, but you’d left.”

“My feelings were kind of bruised, so I went back to my room.”

“I’m sorry,” Marilyn said.

“Well look at the positive side,” I said. “Here we have the whole night to get to know each other with no stupid drunk getting in the way.”

“That sounds nice.”

“First off,” I asked, “how was it you took up schoolmarming?”

“I was the oldest of six kids on a hardscrabble farm. My mother died when I was fourteen so I just took over and raised the lot until my Dad remarried when I was twenty. It just seemed natural to go on wrangling young folks, only in a schoolhouse. Been at it fifteen years.”

“Does seem natural.”

“How about yourself? How did you get into sheriffing?”

“My father was a sheriff but I got into cow-punching. Probably would still be doing that except my father was gunned down during a bank robbery when I was twenty-five. I went along with the posse that hunted down the robbers. I guess the marshal liked the way I kept my cool under fire, so he suggested I carry on a family tradition.”

“That’s not the story I’ve heard,” Marilyn said. “It was more like you saved the marshal’s life.”

“Stories get exaggerated when repeated too often,” I said. “Anyhow, I’ve been a sheriff for close to eighteen years now. With any luck I’m good for another eighteen.”

 “Sounds like you’re ready to settle down,” Marilyn said.

“That might likely be the case.”

We looked at each other and smiled. Then we started in trading details of our lives.

It was not quite the usual way a couple might go a-courting, but by the time dawn started lighting up the inside of the barn, we were pretty well acquainted and each of us pretty convinced we wanted to go way beyond being just good friends. But first I had to figure a way to keep myself intact through three barnyard showdowns.

The sun was barely up over the horizon when Indigo and Chico came into the barn. “Well let’s get things going,” Indigo said to me. Then he grinned over at Marilyn. “One way or the other,” he said, “you’ll be back in time to start school teaching this morning. I wouldn’t want those kids to lose out on getting educated.”

Chico untied me and charitably gave me a couple of minutes to loosen up my arms before he pointed outside where his two brothers were waiting.

“Bart here wants to go first,” Indigo said. Bart was standing there with his sidearm ready, but I saw just a glint of fear in his eyes. I was pretty sure it was Indigo who had decided the order of the standoffs. In any case, I was pretty happy with Bart for starters. When he had handed me his gun out front of my office, he had to make two tries before he got it out of his holster.

Indigo handed me my Colt and holster. I tied on the holster and checked the gun. All six chambers had rounds in them.

I steadied my feet and dropped my hand close to my holster.

Bart backed up so he was some thirty feet away. The sun was off to the side. Indigo had set it up so there would be no sun in anyone’s eyes. He even had Chico drag Marilyn in her chair out where she could watch the gunfire. A very considerate gentleman was Indigo.

“The rules are simple,” Indigo said. “When I say fire, you fire. Everybody ready?”

Bart Junior and I nodded our heads.

Fire!

I had been right. I had my weapon out and leveled at Junior before he finally got his gun loose from its holster. I fired three careful shots at his gun arm. He dropped the gun, grasped his bloody arm with his other hand and let out a yell of pain.

“Aren’t you going to kill him?” Indigo said to me in a voice as cold as winter ice.

“No need,” I said, trying to make my words as equally icy. “With that arm out of service, he’s just as useless to you as being dead.”

Bart hadn’t ceased his moaning. “Oh, for goodness sakes,” Marilyn said. “Chico, come untie my hands so I can squelch that caterwauling.”

Chico looked at Indigo, who nodded his head. The Mexican went over and cut Marilyn’s hands loose. Young Bart staggered over to her. She took the knife out of Chico’s hand, reached down under her skirt and cut loose a swath of petticoat. She took off her belt and tightened it in a tourniquet around Bart’s upper arm, then slit his shirtsleeve up to above the elbow.

“Only two bullet holes, in and out,” she said. She wrapped the cloth tight around the wounds.

“There,” she said to Bart Junior. “That will do for now. You can stop the sobbing if you don’t mind.”

Bart stopped.

“Chico, time for round two,” Indigo said. “Let’s see how the Sheriff does up against a real gun.”

Chico said nothing. He walked out and took his place thirty feet away, standing grim and ready.

I took a moment to reload three rounds from my vest. I put the gun back in its holster and spoke to Indigo. “Just wait a moment; I have a question for Chico.”

“Want to know what we’ll do with your body?” Indigo said.

“Actually, I just wanted to ask Chico why he’s going second.”

“Indigo set it up that way,” Chico replied.

“You didn’t get a say?”

“No.”

“I wonder why that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you split up the haul from your last holdup yet?” I asked.

“What the hell has that got to do with this shootout?” Indigo interrupted.

“Well,” I said, “suppose I kill you, Chico. Then the haul get split two ways, not three ways. A little richer piece for each of your brothers. Also, why was Indigo so anxious I kill Bart?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Indigo almost shouted at Chico. “Just shoot him down.”

“Not so fast.” Chico turned to Indigo. “I think you should go second.”

“I’m not going second,” Indigo growled. “You’re going second.”

“I say you are,” Chico said. His gun was out of its holster and pointing at Indigo.

I have never seen a man draw as fast as Indigo. In a couple of seconds there were two bullet holes in Chico’s chest. He tried to get a shot off at Indigo but his arm wavered and he fired into the dirt before collapsing onto the ground stone dead. So much for brotherly love.

Every situation has its pluses and minuses. On the one hand, I wouldn’t have to shoot it out with Chico. On the other, I was about to go face to face with what clearly was a very fast gun.

“Just hold your hands on top of your head,” Indigo said to me.

He calmly reloaded his revolver then grabbed his late brother’s legs and dragged him off to the side, all the time keeping a wary eye on yours truly.

Then he stepped to the same spot where his brothers had stood. I lowered my hands.

I had heard a theory bantered around by some friends who were discussing gun fights. It went like this. You don’t wait to draw your gun before firing; you shoot off one round while the gun is still in the holster. Supposedly, your opponent will hear the shot and pause a moment trying to figure out whether he’s been hit. That little pause is supposed to give you an extra second to draw and fire a second shot before he can fire a first. It was an interesting theory, but I had never found anyone who had successfully pulled it off. Hopefully, I was going to be that someone.

“We’ll go, when Bart says fire,” Indigo said. “Think you can handle that?” he sneered at his brother.

“Yes.” Young Bart’s voice was weak, but I knew he would do as his brother said.

Indigo and I stood there staring at each other, waiting for the fatal word. I could hear Bart Junior taking a deep breath. Fire! came his voice.

I dropped my hand to my holster, grasped the revolver and fired a shot into the ground. Then I whipped the gun up. I had been watching Indigo. His gun was half out of its holster when he heard the shot. A puzzled look twisted his face and he paused for just a fraction of a second, but long enough for me to have my Colt leveled square at his chest. I was easing down on the trigger when the sound of a shot came from somewhere back behind me. A small hole appeared in the center of Indigo’s forehead. The gun dropped out of his hand. His arms went wide, grasping at empty air as he fell backwards to the ground.

Bart turned and ran into the barn. I reholstered my weapon and turned around to see what I expected. Out from a rock a hundred feet away came Nancy, rifle in one hand, leading her horse by the other.

“Well,” she said as she approached. “This is getting to be annoying, having to save your ass twice in three days.”

“You didn’t save anyone’s ass,” I said. “I had him.”

 “You mean like fastest gun in the West? How in tarnation was I supposed to know you had aspirations to be a gunfighter?”

“My aspiration was saving my own skin, ” I said. “And thank you for doing the job for me. Now how did you know where I was?”

“I didn’t buy your phony story about Farnham’s, so I checked your office after you left, found the broken window and the note. And here I am.”

“I’m glad you showed up,” I said, “but didn’t you play it a little close?”

“I had to wait until your friend was standing absolutely still, which one does when they’re about to draw in a shootout.”

 “Good point,” I said.

“Now I have a question,” Nancy said. “When you had the chance with that first gunslinger, why didn’t you kill him?”

“No way,” I said. “With that clumsy child, it would have been plain murder.”

“I hate to interrupt this fascinating discussion on compassionate gun fighting.” Marilyn’s voice had a full load of impatience. “Hadn’t you better round up your friend Bart and maybe untie me in the bargain.”

I pointed Nancy to the knife lying next to Marilyn’s chair and went to find Bart cowering in a back corner of the barn. I waved my gun barrel towards the open barn door and followed him out. Standing there was Marilyn with her hair tied back up with the schoolmarm bun atop her head. She looked Bart up and down, as if deciding whether she should give him a D minus or an F in deportment.

“Can I borrow your Colt?” she asked me.

“Why?”

“I’m not planning to kill anyone,” she said, “just instill a little fear.”

I handed her the gun. She broke it open with a frighteningly professional ease and examined the empty chamber. “One round,” she said to me.

I dug out a bullet from my vest and handed it to her. She swiftly reloaded, snapped the gun shut and turned it at Bart. “Now, Bart Junior, you and your kin have caused these folks a peak of trouble. Don’t you think you should apologize to them?”

“I ain’t apologizing to no one,” was Bart’s sullen reply.

“Goodness,” said Marilyn, “I think what you meant to say was, ‘I am not apologizing to anyone, Ma’am.’”

Bart Junior just stood there in a pout without speaking so Marilyn fired one shot into the ground about two inches from his feet.

“Alright, alright,” Bart shouted. “I’ll apologize.”

“I’ll apologize, Ma’am,” said the schoolmarm.

“I’ll apologize, Ma’am.”

“Go ahead, but sound like you mean it.”

Seeing as this was probably the first time young Bart had ever apologized for anything, he did a right proper job saying how sorry he was for the trouble he and his brothers had given Nancy, Marilyn and myself. Whether he meant it or not is a different question, what with the gun in Marilyn’s hand pointing at a particularly vital point in his body.

Watching Bart’s performance, I had the sudden thought. If Marilyn and I have kids, they sure are going to be raised right and proper.

When Bart finished, Marilyn handed me back my gun then reached up and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m awfully proud of what you did,” she said.

Then she turned to Nancy. “And thank you for making it possible for me to marry my Sheriff.”

“Why’s that?” I demanded.

Marilyn smiled sweetly up at me. “If you had killed Indigo, you’d have bought yourself a reputation as a fast gun. I have no desire to be the poor wife sitting home worrying my head off every time some would-be gunslinger shows up in town to find out just how fast a gun you are.”

We loaded up the bodies of Chico and Indigo on their horses and hoisted up Bart on his horse with his good hand tied to the saddle pommel. Marilyn insisted on doubling up with me on Arizona and we headed back to town.

Both Doc and Kalegg, our undertaker, were going to be happy seeing as they would have paying customers, thanks to the silver dollars I found in Indigo’s saddlebag. Come to think of it, the loot from the brother’s last holdup was being spread around kind of equitably between the three brothers.