Silver City Massacre by Charles G. West Page A

was nothing he should do about it. “Well, I’ll get on back to the office,” he said, cast one more quick glance in Lige’s direction, then walked out.
    â€œNobody gets away with this,” Lige grumbled. “I’ll get that son of a bitch.”
    â€œHold still,” Doc told him, “or you’re gonna have this bandage wrapped around your neck.”
    Lige held still, but he was thinking that Doc could show him a little more respect.
    Maybe after I track those Rebels down, I might come back and take some of that sass out of you,
he thought.
    As his mind cleared, he became more inflamed with the desire for vengeance. To add a little incentive to his desire to catch up with the two Rebels, he remembered then that someone who saw the two men leave town said they were leading four horses, two of them with packs. “I can track as good as any Injun,” he boasted. “I’ll find those bastards.”
    â€œI hope you do,” Doc said. “I hope you do. Make us all proud of you.” The sarcasm was lost on the simple being who was Lige Tolbert. It only confused him.
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    Approximately twelve miles north of Denver City, Joel and Riley sat by a fire on the bank of a small stream. Unaware that the man bent on tracking them was already in the saddle, even with his face swollen from injury, they were drinking coffee made from the beans they had purchased in Guthrie’s store. Joel had taken his drink of whiskey before changing to coffee, primarily because Riley insisted upon it.
    â€œWeren’t fair that you didn’t get the chance to have a drink back there in the saloon,” he said.
    Not sure whether there would be anybody coming after them for the disturbance in the saloon, they had taken precautions to hide their trail. Their path had led them to a river not more than a mile from town, but the water seemed too deep to ride in for any distance upstream or down. So they crossed over and continued on until reaching a wide stream that just served the purpose. Entering the water, they rode upstream, closer to the mountains, for about half a mile before leaving it to head due north again. Feeling it a good bet that they would have lost anyone thinking of tailing them, they relaxed to enjoy the coffee.
    â€œThat feller ain’t likely to forget you for a long time,” Riley remarked. He had gotten a brief glimpse of Joel’s encounter with Lige through the open door of the saloon. “Dang, that musta smarted somethin’ fierce. Laid him out cold, I reckon.”
    â€œWell, he didn’t get up,” Joel replied with a shrug.
    â€œI expect we’ve seen the last of him,” Riley said.
    He felt very pleased with the situation. He had already known of Joel’s character in a regiment-sized skirmish, and he had wondered how his young partner could handle himself in a barroom fight. Now he knew he could count on him in most any situation.
    â€œI reckon this is as good a time as any to shuck this uniform,” he said. “Much longer and it’d be fallin’ off by itself.” He pulled his boots off in preparation for disrobing.
    â€œI expect you’re right,” Joel said, and started coming out of his uniform as well. “It seems they ain’t much good for anything but startin’ trouble.”
    Riley suggested it would be a fitting final ceremony to close the war officially by burning the tattered uniforms. Joel agreed, so they cast the remains onto the fire. The grimy uniforms almost put out the fire, and Riley had to tend them using a stick for a poker until he could feed portions of the heavy cloth little by little. An undesired result of the ceremony was the creation of a black smoke column that rose from their camp.
    â€œThat ain’t good,” Riley remarked, and pulled the uniforms from the fire. He and Joel stomped the smoldering material until the flames were