Chapter 3

Jess "The Snake" Hawkins and the rest of the Copperhead Gang were prominent on several wanted posters. They were mostly known for bank robberies, but they had been know to hit trains and stage coaches, too. They were vicious cut-throats who had no pity for any of their victims. I could only assume that they were here for our two banks.

Neither of the banks held much, alone, to interest a gang of bandits, but the two banks, together, were a different story. I couldn't ignore this, but how was I going to arrest six desperate outlaws, most of whom carried two guns at their waists?

The swamper was still with me, so I told him to go inside and quietly tell the bartender to stop arguing with the thugs and to serve them whatever they wanted. Hopefully, they would be distracted enough that I could somehow get the drop on them. From where I was standing, the outlaws were sort of lined up edge on facing the bar. That way, the only one I had a clear shot at was the one nearest to me. If I shot him, that would only warn the rest of them before I could shoot at them.

In a moment, though, I had an inspiration. The saloon was laid out so that the door to the jakes (outhouse) behind the saloon was directly opposite the bar, so if I ran around the building, I could come in that door and get the drop on the whole gang and have an equal shot at all of them.

The bartender, Jeb Silas, got the message from the swamper and agreed to serve the gang while letting them keep their guns. As soon as he started serving them, I ran around the building to the other door. I got there while they were still working on their first drink.

I stuck my head through the door and saw them at the bar. I swung my shotgun into position and shouted, "PUT YOUR HANDS UP! I AM THE MARSHAL OF HARMONY JUNCTION! Y'ALL ARE UNDER ARREST! I'LL SHOOT THE FIRST ONE TO MAKE A FALSE MOVE!"

Jeb saw me and my shotgun and wasted no time in ducking behind his bar, which was made of four-inch-thick oak planks. That was enough to stop any bullets propelled by black powder.

The outlaws could see me in the mirror behind the bar, so they knew where I was and that I had a shotgun trained on them. I can't imagine why, unless it was false courage from the whiskey, or the fact that I am a woman and they didn't expect a woman to defy them, but every one of them tried to pull his pistol.

I didn't wait for any more response before firing the first shot at them. I had aimed for the leader, since I figured that he would be the most dangerous one of the gang. Well, most of the shot did hit him, and he fell where he was standing. I am sorry to say that at least two of the lead shot from my shotgun also hit Jeb's mirror, his pride and joy, and shattered it into a multitude of pieces which broke further as they fell to the ground.

I levered the next shell into the gun and fired at the man nearest the door, since I didn't want any to escape if I could help it. He was in the process of taking a shot at me when the balls from my shotgun hit him, mostly in the chest. His gun went off, and the bullet went flying, just not at me. I didn't find out until later that his bullet hit and severely wounded the swamper. That poor man lived only until he ran out of blood.

By this time, the rest of the outlaws were diving for the floor and turning over tables to hide behind. That was bad luck for me, since the tables were thick enough to stop a shotgun pellet at the current range of about 20 yards. I had suddenly lost a major part of my advantage, though it had actually been mostly psychological. Fortunately, the .45 bullets from my revolver could penetrate the tables most of the time, so I had a good chance of winning this battle if I could refrain from doing something stupid.

I think that I have mentioned that I am a very good shot with a pistol, and I should be able to hold my own, since the door frame and wall I was sheltering behind were more than adequate to stop the pistol bullets fired by the outlaws. On the other hand, I did have to expose some part of my body in order to shoot, so I was a long way from invulnerable.

I did not try to shoot at the small amount of skin exposed around the edge of the table by the outlaws as they shot at me. Instead, I aimed at the table where I thought an important part of the galoot's body would be hiding. I didn't need a fatal wound, just something that would slow him down, and, especially, keep him from escaping. A wound in the chest area that was the result of a penetrating bullet would, more than likely, eventually be fatal from the gangrene expected to develop there. I might not get credit for the kill, but I would certainly remove from this Earth someone who deserved to die.

Bullets rattled back and forth at a fairly steady rate for the next 15 minutes. The noise was terrific, and I was sure that someone would come to investigate just to see the novelty of what was going on. I had mostly fired slowly, so that I could mask when I was reloading. Reloading a pistol like mine was so quick, only a few seconds, that it must have seemed like continuous shooting by someone used to the much longer reloading time of a Colt. That, combined with the fact that I could load the cylinder with six bullets, instead of the conventional five, must have seemed almost like magic to my opponents.

I had managed to wound two more of the outlaws, judging from the outbursts of pain that I occasionally heard. There was a good chance that a man would be hit by a splinter of wood, even if he was missed by a bullet. Finally, the man nearest the door decided to make a run for it, but I was ready for that sort of maneuver. I admit it—I was lucky, but I did manage to shatter his hip as he tried to run away. The .45 bullet packs quite a punch when it only has a layer or two of cloth to penetrate.

The man fell fully in the open, so I could have killed him with another shot if I had wanted to. He had lost his pistol in his fall, so I was not worried about any more shooting from him. He was screaming and crying for help, to the point that I began to wish the battle would end so that I could shut him up with a dose of laudanum. However, it did occur to me that his lamentations were an excellent weapon on my behalf, because it continually pointed out to the other outlaws what a good shot I was and what could happen to them if they didn't surrender pretty damned soon.

After nearly 30 minutes of the very noisy gunfight, a face appeared at the door. He was a swamper from one of the saloons down the street. The bartender had probably sent him to investigate and to return with an interesting story. He disappeared after a few minutes and nothing more was seen of him. However, shortly after he disappeared, several new faces appeared at the door, and one man came up behind me from the alley behind the saloon.

I gave him a quick rundown on what was going on, and asked for him to round up help, because I was afraid that I would shortly run out of pistol ammunition. He nodded and took off at a dead run. He was back only a few minutes later with two boxes of ammunition and word that help was on the way. Now, that was a relief!

He stayed to help me, but his gun was only a .38 made from a converted Colt Navy revolver. Unfortunately, the .38 bullet would not penetrate the wood of the table tops, except almost by accident, but it did add to the volume of fire coming from my position.

Within five minutes, a lot of fire started coming from the front door, and the outlaws decided that it was time to quit. I shouted for a cease fire, and then commanded the outlaws to throw out their guns. I was amazed at the arsenal that slid across the floor. There were four active shooters left among the outlaws, but 13 guns slid my way from them. Included were two derringer hideout guns.

I was afraid of more hideout guns, especially after what had happened to my husband, so I ordered the men to strip while we were waiting for the doctor who had been summoned. I thought that it was ludicrous that the men would object because I was a woman, but my shotgun pointing in their direction persuaded them to cooperate. Once they were naked, I sent them to sit in the chairs along the wall while I checked their clothes. I was right, I found three more derringers and, of course, every man had more than one knife.