. THE ARIZONA STRIP GAMBLER 

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Chapter One

Wheels spun wildly as dust billowed in the still heat of the Arizona desert. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder hung in the air. A harsh voice sliced toward a young man sprawled in the dirt nearby: "Get that one on the ground. He ain’t dead yet."

Fear brought action, and the young man bounded up to sprint for the boulders twenty feet away. A leaden slug ricocheted off the haven of rocks as he dove behind them. Rolling over, he managed to get a hasty look below. Another slug smacked into the rock. He ducked, and blotted out the view. He’d barely made it…the other two passengers must have been thrown from the stage when it tipped crazily before slamming into the hard-packed earth.

An unwelcome vision entered his mind: her long blond hair covering his eyes as he fought to get his breath from the sudden stop their bodies made against the rocky ground. Quickly pushing the silken hair aside, he’d turned to help her. The slack face, unseeing eyes, and ugly way her head twisted told him their future together had come to an abrupt end.

The driver, along with the shotgun guard, lay crushed beneath the stage. The other couple, who rode with them when they left the four-corners area, were nowhere in sight.

Just as he began to rise to a sitting position, more outlaws came galloping around the bend in the road, a bend the stage failed to negotiate at high speed after the driver was shot. The young man’s new wife being beyond help, he had chosen the protection of the blood-colored boulders.

Now he crouched behind the rocky barrier as more pistol-fire erupted. Chips of rock flew into the unsettled air around him. Inside his vest nestled a small caliber pistol and his fingers gratefully pulled it from the holster. Not much, but better than nothing.

The harsh voice rang out again as the last horse slid to a stop: "Never mind the greenhorn, he won’t last long in this desert. Get that strongbox and let’s get out of here."

A slight gap between two rocks allowed the young man to watch a small portion of the ugly scene. The apparent leader, a hulky outlaw sitting astride a strawberry roan, a bandana over his lower face, motioned to the men with him. Two of them dismounted and scrambling onto the stagecoach, tore the back boot open to extract a strongbox.

An excited shout came from the other side of the wrecked wagon; two of the gang had ridden over to it: "Hey, this one’s still alive."

"Don’t matter, we ain’t taking any prisoners."

"But it’s a lady. She’s awful pretty. I think we oughtta take her along," whined the first outlaw.

Riled at this slight sign of insubordination, their leader rode around the stagecoach, his gun drawn. The blast from it had barely settled over the sagebrush before his voice bellowed, "Now you ain’t got no choice. I said we’re not taking any prisoners and I meant it. Get down and cut those horses out of the traces…we’ll take ‘em with us."

"What about the feller that made it to the rocks? We ought to kill him too," urged one of the men just climbing down from the overturned stage.

"All right Arnie, if you want to do the job, go on over and finish him off." The large man rode back around the coach and reaching down, hoisted the strongbox to the saddle in front of him. His mission accomplished, he kicked his horse into motion, returning the way they’d come. Three of the outlaws followed him.

Arnie stepped to saddle leather, then trotted toward the rocks with his gun spitting lead at the spot where the man had disappeared. When his gun clicked empty, a slug took him between the eyes and he pitched heavily to the ground, his revolver twitching from slack fingers.

"Hey, he got Arnie," shouted the outlaw who’d cut the horses loose. Angry, he turned to get revenge, his gun coming up. An unerring bullet knocked him backward. His foot caught in the stirrup as the horse jumped the other way, running full out to catch those already hidden by the dust. Arnie’s riderless horse followed.

The young man rose slowly from behind the rocks, and with a great deal of satisfaction, watched the outlaw’s body bounce over the ruts in the road. Eventually his gaze returned to the still figure with the blond hair and the white wedding dress. One more glance in the direction the outlaws disappeared, then he reluctantly walked the distance to his bride. Kneeling down, he picked up her left hand, his fingers slowly caressing the gold wedding band. His other hand brushed the hair from her face where the light breeze had blown it.

His face tipped toward the soft mouth he loved, and he brushed her lips lightly with his own. Then he put his arms under her and cradled her to his chest. A moment only, a lifetime in a sense, he knelt this way. Finally he stood, her lifeless body in his arms, and carried her up into the rocks he’d just left. A spot beyond them appeared to be clear enough for his purposes. He gently laid her down, then retraced his steps to the stage.

Rummaging around, he found the shovel that rested in the boot. With it gripped tightly in his hand, he strode purposefully back to where she lay. The ground was dry and hard but he attacked it with rage boiling inside him. Memories of the wedding that took place before they boarded the stage for their honeymoon caused him to dig even harder.

A big festive affair, most of the folks from the ranches put aside chores for a spell to join them for this occasion. When Vera walked from the school house to stand by his side, she radiated happiness and her love for him was plain on her face. Holding hands, they stood in a circle of joy while the preacher did his part. Their lips met at the proper time and then the earth shook with shouts and gunshots from the young male spectators.

"By golly, Grant, you don’t get all the fun today. Us boys got a right to kiss the bride." A non-too-gentle shove from the nearest puncher pushed Grant aside and Vera felt herself grabbed in the first of many bear hugs.

Her father, heavy and stately in his manner, took the bridegroom’s arm and pulled him out of the way. "Those boys will run over you, Grant, if you don’t get out of their road. They been wanting to snag that pretty daughter of mine for several years now, but it took a stranger like you to do the job. Just step back and let them have their fun. She’ll still be in one piece when they’re through."

Shaking his head in wonder, Grant glanced at his father-in-law. "Mr. Blain, I guess I didn’t really know how lucky I was when Vera said ‘yes’ to me. Seemed for a while there like I’d never get anywhere, no matter how hard I tried. Then all of a sudden she quit chasing me off your ranch and things got a whole lot better."

"You have to remember she’s a country girl, and a fellow with your background don’t come too highly recommended around these parts. It took a while for her to realize you were an honest man and that a gambler could be a gentleman." Blain chuckled, "Actually, she probably consented after seeing you’d be the owner of the Sleepy Hollow Ranch if I kept losing my money to you."

As another cowhand happily kissed his new wife, Grant said, "Nope, she consented only when I promised her we’d live on a ranch in the Arizona Strip country. She doesn’t know it yet, but I closed the deal on the ranch over a month ago. That’s where we’re headed for our honeymoon. Taking the stage to Red Mesa, then tomorrow we’ll go by horseback to the ranch. She’s going to be dumfounded when she finds out it belongs to us."

"Well, well, you’re full of surprises, Grant. I didn’t think anything could tear you away from the gaming tables. How did you come by a ranch in that wild country?"

"Just pure luck. A couple of months ago a fellow played poker at my table. He mentioned he lived on the Strip and I got to talking with him about the country over there. His description of the place got me a hankering to see it. After the game he mentioned he owned a ranch and was getting too old to run it. I bought it from him that very night, then popped the question to Vera."

Blain couldn’t believe his ears. "You mean you bought a ranch without even seeing the place? How you know the fellow wasn’t selling you a pig in a poke?"

"I checked on it. Sent a wire to the fort at Pipe Springs. The captain there wired back saying the man did own a large ranch on the Strip and that he was going back east to find a buyer for it." Grant smiled gleefully: "When the owner found out he wouldn’t have to go all that way to sell his ranch for the price he wanted, he was happier than a newborn colt at its mother’s bag."

"Hmmm. Don’t know if I’d of bought without seeing the ranch first, even at that. Some say the Strip is wilder than a turpentined cat. Seems like most of the outlaws roaming around call that place home." Blain was still not convinced.

"According to the captain, it’s well-stocked with cattle, has a large ranch house and about twenty men on the payroll. With that many men working for us, we shouldn’t have a problem with outlaws." Grant was keeping a furtive eye on his new wife, who seemed to be holding up well. He wanted to be sure none of the punchers were sneaking in for seconds.

"Who-ee, a spread like that must of cost a fortune. Now I know where my money’s been going that I lost at your table. Well, as long as it’ll make Vera happy, can’t say I regret it none."

"Hey, I thought the price would be rather high too, but the owner wanted to get out of the ranching business pretty bad, so I guess he put a price on it that would attract an eastern buyer fast. To me, the price sounded just right. No use wasting time in making a decision. I’ve always found if you put things off, they might not be available when you finally go back for them. From the description the owner gave me, I figure Vera will like it."

Still worried, Blain said, "I don’t know how she’s going to take being the only woman on a ranch in such barren country. Folks I’ve talked to say the ranches on the Strip are miles and miles apart."

Grant smiled at his father-in-law’s skepticism. All Blain wanted was his daughter’s happiness, of course, and even though he liked Grant, he felt a gambler knew cards, not ranching. Grant tried to ease the man’s mind: "I got the lowdown on that too. Seems the foreman of the spread is a middle-aged family man. He has a daughter who’s nineteen and will fit right in with Vera. Seems she’s as knowledgeable as Vera about ranch business. Fact is, he told me there really wasn’t much for him to do anymore, with the foreman running things and his daughter doing the business end. So I figure the two girls will get along just fine, being about the same age and all."

The worry line between Blain’s eyebrows disappeared. Who knows…it just might work. And someday they would come visit with three or four young’uns tagging along just to pester him. He clapped Grant on the shoulder. "You got it all figured out, son. I wish you only the best." They turned back to the bride.

The last cowboy to kiss Vera looked no more than sixteen, but this didn’t stop him from planting a big juicy one on her before he strutted off amid cheers. Grant claimed her and as the rice flew, they hurried to the stagecoach station. He’d tied the baggage on top before the wedding and the coach stood waiting for them. As soon as they stepped on board, the horses broke into a dead run and the stage careened out of Durango, Colorado.

A final shovel of dirt flew from the hole and he crawled out, shaking his head to clear the past from his mind. Stooping to pick up Vera’s body, he held her close and kissed the cold lips one last time. There was enough of the wedding dress to make a beautiful white shroud. He wrapped it gently around her before bending to place her body in the freshly dug grave. He stood momentarily, then picked up the shovel and waded in. With the grave filled and the dirt tromped down, he started another hole. This would be larger in order to accommodate both the other lady on the stage and her husband. When that was done, he’d do the same for the driver and the shotgun guard. The outlaws could be food for the buzzards, which was only fitting.

Shadows from the full moon bathed the forest of rocks in a dim glow by the time he completed his tasks. Blisters stung his hands and his shoulders ached. Going back to the stage, he unwound the canteen hanging from its shattered side. Taking it down, he sloshed it around, figuring there was at least a quarter of the water left. He put it to his lips and drank sparingly, then placed the strap over his shoulder and stood looking at the broken coach.

Most of the items in the luggage underneath were not important. Vera’s things wouldn’t be needed now. His money was kept in the inside pocket of his coat and what the others might have had in their belongings didn’t interest him. Whoever came looking for the coach would take care of everything. However, the outlaw’s gun and some extra bullets might come in handy, so he slipped those in an empty pocket. Nothing else remained; he turned and walked away from the wreck without a backward glance.

A decision had been made for him by the death of Vera: he’d travel toward the Gap, acquire a horse there and continue on to the Strip. That must be where the outlaws were headed with the strongbox. It may take a long time, but sooner or later he’d meet the large man on the strawberry roan and his companions, and when that hour came, the devils in Hell would pity those men. His hand came up and touched the butt of the gun in its shoulder holster. The grin pulling back his lips was not one of joy.

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