Purdue said, “Don’t you reckon I’d better stay and keep an eye on these two troublemakers?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Purdue didn’t like it, but he went out and closed the door behind him. Stovepipe did his best not to grin at the deputy’s frustration. He figured Purdue would soon be a lot more discombobulated.
Olsen nodded at the white-haired man and said, “This is Judge Thaddeus Snow.”
Stovepipe said, “Pleased to meet you, Your Honor.”
“And County Attorney Bert Wainwright,” added Olsen, indicating the sober fellow who looked as much like a sky pilot as a lawyer.
Judge Snow said, “Sheriff Olsen has explained the situation to us, gentlemen, and asked for our cooperation in the matter. As representatives of the law, Mr. Wainwright and I are always happy to cooperate with such an esteemed organization as the Arizona Territorial Cattle Raisers’ Association.”
By which the judge meant that since he and Wainwright were elected officials, and the ATCRA could wield a lot of influence in political campaigns, they didn’t want to get on the wrong side of that bunch, mused Stovepipe. But he certainly wasn’t averse to taking advantage of such influence if it helped him and Wilbur uncover the truth behind the hell-raising in the Tonto Basin.
“Therefore,” continued the judge, “after much consultation between the sheriff, Mr. Wainwright, and myself, we have decided to drop the charges of attempted murder against the two of you and reduce the other charges to two counts of creating a public disturbance. I find you guilty on both counts and as empowered by the laws of the Territory of Arizona, I fine you ten dollars apiece for these misdemeanors.”
Stovepipe took a double eagle from his pocket and placed it on the sheriff’s desk.
“There you go,” he said. “I reckon Wilbur and I are free to go now?”
Olsen shoved their guns across the desk and growled, “I tried to get you to leave an hour ago, but you wanted to do it this way.”
Stovepipe picked up the ivory-handled Colt, checked the cylinder, and then holstered the gun. Wilbur did likewise with his plainer revolver. It felt good to have a gun on his hip again, thought Stovepipe. He’d been packing iron for so long that being without it almost made him walk slantwise.
Stovepipe touched a finger to the brim of his black hat and said, “Much obliged to you, fellas. Wilbur and I will be around. Just keep it under your hats who we really are.”
“Go on, get out of here,” said Olsen. The sheriff was cooperating with them, but Stovepipe could tell he wasn’t that happy about having outside investigators poking around in his county. Most lawmen felt the same way.
The two of them walked out of the building. Stovepipe paused and took a deep breath.
“Nothin’ like breathin’ free air and feelin’ free sunlight shinin’ on your face,” he said.
“What are we gonna do now, Stovepipe?” asked Wilbur.
“Now we see if anybody has any interest in hirin’ a couple of driftin’ cowboys,” said Stovepipe.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Before they could get started on that, Stovepipe noticed a wagon down the street as it pulled up and came to a stop in front of one of the buildings. A man who looked like a typical cowpuncher was at the reins, but sitting beside him was a woman dressed all in black, including the veil that covered her face.
Despite the mourning outfit, something about the woman caught the eye. Perhaps it was the slight flash of golden hair under the black hat and veil, or the way the sober dress didn’t quite conceal the appealing lines of her body.
Stovepipe set off toward the wagon with his usual long-legged stride. Wilbur hurried to catch up and then keep up.
“Stovepipe, what are you doing?” asked the redhead.
“Payin’ my respects to the widow,” Stovepipe said. “That’s Miz Stafford yonder.”
“Yeah, I can see that. I’m not sure she wants anything to do with us, though.”
“Well, it don’t cost nothin’ to be polite, and it don’t hurt nothin’, neither, my mama always said.”
As the two men approached the wagon, they doffed their hats and held the Stetsons in front of their chests. The driver had already climbed down from the vehicle, but Jessica Stafford was still perched on the seat.
“Ma’am,” said Stovepipe as he and Wilbur came to a stop beside the wagon, “Wilbur and me would like to extend our deepest condolences.”
Up close like this, Jessica’s face was visible through the veil. Stovepipe could see the surprise on her features as she said, “Thank you, Mr. Stewart, and you, too, Mr. Coleman.” She paused. “To be honest, I didn’t expect to see the two of you like this. I was under the impression Sheriff Olsen was going to lock you up.”
“Oh, he did, ma’am,” Stovepipe told her. “But the county attorney decided to reduce the charges against us, and the judge done fined us already. We paid up, and we’re free men.”
Jessica smiled faintly under the veil.
“Actually, I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Stewart. The two of you strike me as honest men who were unfortunate enough to find yourselves in a bad situation. And you certainly helped me as much as you could under the . . . the tragic circumstances.”
She glanced over her shoulder into the back of the wagon, where a blanket-shrouded form lay. Stovepipe knew that was the body of her husband, Henry.
“If there’s anything else we can do for you . . .” he said.
“I’m afraid everything that needs to be done right now is the province of the undertaker.” She hesitated. “Although . . .”
“Yes’m?” asked Stovepipe.
“What do the two of you intend to do now? Will you be moving on out of the basin?”
“Well, it’s true Wilbur and me are a mite fiddle-footed. . . but we thought we might stay around these parts for a spell yet, even though they ain’t been very hospitable so far.”
“Perhaps we can change that. I feel like I owe you something for the help you gave me—”
“Oh no, ma’am, not really.”
“Yes,” Jessica insisted. “I’d like for you to come work for me. The HS Bar can always use another couple of good hands, especially at a time like this when things are in such an uproar. You have worked with cattle before, haven’t you?”
Wilbur said, “Ma’am, Stovepipe here was one of the top hands in the whole blamed state of Texas when he was younger. And I’ve looked at the south end of more northbound cows than I could ever remember, let alone count!”
“It’s settled, then,” said Jessica as she smiled again under the veil. “The two of you are now riding for the HS Bar.”
“You don’t want to check with your foreman before you go to hirin’ anybody?” asked Stovepipe.
A note of steel entered Jessica’s voice as she said, “It’s my ranch now, Mr. Stewart, and I’ll hire whoever I want to.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The man who had driven the wagon into town had gone into the building, which according to the sign on the awning above the boardwalk was the Hat Creek undertaking parlor. He came back out now, accompanied by a lean, middle-aged, fair-haired man in a gray suit.
“Mrs. Stafford, my deepest sympathy on your loss,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Brewer,” Jessica said.
“If you’d care to come inside with me, out of the heat, we can make all the necessary arrangements. Wilkins can drive the wagon around to the back, where my boys are waiting, and they’ll take care of everything else.”
“You’re too kind,” murmured Jessica. As she started to get down from the wagon, Stovepipe quickly clapped the hat back on his head and held out a hand to help her.
Once she was on the boardwalk, she turned to look at Stovepipe and Wilbur again and told them, “I’ll see you gentlemen out at the ranch.”
“Yes’m, we’ll be there,” Stovepipe assured her.
“The foreman’s name is Bob Ridgewell. When you get there, tell him that I hired you. There won’t
be any problem.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The undertaker stood aside from the door and ushered her into the building. The HS Bar puncher climbed onto the wagon, took the reins, and drove around the building, leaving Stovepipe and Wilbur standing there in the street next to the boardwalk.
“Riding jobs,” said Wilbur. “You got us riding jobs. Was that what you intended when we walked over here?”
“Not exactly, but I reckon the idea might’ve been in the back of my mind,” admitted Stovepipe. “Think about it, Wilbur. The rustlers pulled out o’ that hideout on the Box D and seemed to be headed toward the Stafford spread. Chances are, whatever hell breaks loose next is gonna be on the HS Bar.”
“And we’ll be right in the middle of it,” Wilbur said.
“Well,” said Stovepipe with a grin, “that seems to be the way it’s workin’ out.”
* * *
Their horses had been put in the livery stable when they reached Hat Creek as prisoners, so that was where they headed now to reclaim the Appaloosa and the dun. They drew a lot of suspicious looks. The big crowd that had been on hand earlier had dispersed, but there were still quite a few people on the street and it appeared that most of them were surprised to see the two drifters out of jail and walking around free.
The old-timer who ran the livery stable certainly was. He was holding a pitchfork when Stovepipe and Wilbur walked in, so he clutched it tighter and leveled the tines at the two of them.
“Did you fellas bust outta jail again?” he asked.
“No, the judge fined us and let us go,” said Stovepipe.
“Fined you? For throwin’ in with a killer and breakin’ jail?”
Wilbur said, “Dan’s no killer, and as for the jailbreak, there were what you call mitigrating circumstances.”
The liveryman frowned and said, “I never heard of no such blasted thing.”
“Well, if Wilbur says it, you can be sure it’s right,” Stovepipe told him. “Anyway, we’re free men again, and we’ve come to get our hosses.”
“Gonna rattle your hocks and shake off the dust of this part of the country, eh?”
“Actually, we’re stayin’ around for a while. Got ridin’ jobs out at the Stafford spread.”
“What? You mean Bob Ridgewell hired you? I didn’t know he was even in town.”
“Nope. Miz Stafford did the hirin’. Seems like she’s gonna take the reins and run the ranch.”
The old-timer’s frown deepened as he said, “A woman runnin’ a ranch? I don’t know how the crew’s gonna take to that. But I reckon it ain’t none o’ my business.” He pointed. “Your nags are in those stalls over yonder. You can saddle ’em your ownselves. The county pays me a mere pittance for stablin’ prisoners’ horses, and it ain’t enough for me to have to saddle the blamed things, to boot!”
Chuckling to themselves at the irascible oldster’s complaints, Stovepipe and Wilbur went to saddle the Appaloosa and the dun. A few minutes later they rode out of Hat Creek, still on the receiving end of quite a few curious, even suspicious and hostile, stares.
“Appears that folks around here don’t like us—or trust us,” commented Wilbur as they left the settlement behind.
“I don’t figure on losin’ much sleep over that. The time’ll come when they understand what’s goin’ on.”
“Assuming we ever figure that out.”
“Oh, we will,” Stovepipe said with easy assurance.
Wilbur looked over at his old friend. After a moment, he said, “You’ve got the whole thing figured out already, don’t you?”
“Nope, not hardly. Like I told you before, there’s just a far-fetched idea rattlin’ around up there in my noggin, and it’s liable to die for lack of company if I don’t come up with somethin’ else pretty soon.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Wilbur, his tone making it clear he didn’t really accept Stovepipe’s explanation.
It was late afternoon by the time the two men reached the headquarters of the HS Bar. They had seen punchers tending to the stock grazing on HS Bar range, but no one had challenged them. That changed now as a short but wide-shouldered man with curly brown hair emerged from the bunkhouse and strode toward them. Stovepipe and Wilbur reined in.
The man kept his hand close to the butt of the revolver on his hip as he said, “I recognize you two. You were with Dan Hartford earlier today. When you left here, you were under arrest.”
“Well, now we ain’t,” said Stovepipe. “The judge believed us when we told him we didn’t have anything to do with Hartford and didn’t even know him until a couple of days ago. He fined us for disturbin’ the peace and makin’ public nuisances of ourselves, since none of the trouble was deliberate-like, and then let us go.”
“So what are you doing here?” the man wanted to know.
“We talked to Miz Stafford in town, and she hired us.”
“Hired you!” exclaimed the man. “What the hell!”
Stovepipe said, “Reckon you must be Bob Ridgewell, the foreman around here.”
“That’s right. And I do the hiring and firing, along with Mr.—”
Ridgewell stopped short and frowned. Stovepipe said, “Along with Mr. Stafford, I reckon you were fixin’ to say. I understand how you feel, Bob. Truth to tell, I was a mite worried that Miz Stafford might be steppin’ on your toes a little by offerin’ us ridin’ jobs. But we can use the work, and if you’ll allow me a little braggin’, we’re pretty good hands.”
“Top hands,” added Wilbur.
“But if you want to go against Miz Stafford’s decision and tell us to ride on,” continued Stovepipe, “we’ll sure do it. We ain’t keen on stayin’ anywhere we ain’t wanted. Ain’t that right, Wilbur?”
Before the redhead could answer, Ridgewell shook his head and said, “No, no, that’s all right. With the boss gone, I reckon Mrs. Stafford is calling the shots around here now. I can put up with that, as long as she doesn’t get too high-handed about it.”
“So we can stay on for a spell?”
Ridgewell pointed and said, “Put your horses in the corral over there. There are several empty bunks in the bunkhouse. Claim whichever ones you want. Supper’s not far off. Get yourselves a meal and a good night’s sleep and then get up in the morning ready to work.”
“Oh, we will be,” Stovepipe said. “Come mornin’, we’ll be ready to do our jobs, you can count on that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Even if Stovepipe and Wilbur had been mere strangers, the crew of the HS Bar would have wanted to take their measure. As it was, their connection, however tenuous, to Dan Hartford and their presence that morning soon after Henry Stafford’s body had been found, combined to make the other hands in the bunkhouse downright suspicious.
The men kept that feeling in check until after the evening meal, when everyone had returned to the crew’s quarters. After unsaddling their horses and putting them in one of the corrals, as Bob Ridgewell had told them to, Stovepipe and Wilbur had carried their war bags and rifles into the bunkhouse and placed them on a couple of empty bunks in the far rear corner. Those bunks were the farthest from the stove and the windows, so that corner would be chilly in the winter and hot and stuffy in the summer.
Stovepipe didn’t figure he and Wilbur would be around here long enough for either of those things to become a problem.
They were sitting on their bunks, Wilbur reading a dime novel he had taken from his bag and Stovepipe cleaning and oiling the ivory-handled Colt, when one of the punchers approached them. The man was heavy shouldered but had a born horseman’s lean hips. Dark beard stubble dotted his jaw, which he thrust out belligerently as he said, “Bob tells us you hombres have signed on to ride for the HS Bar.”
“That’s right,” Stovepipe said mildly. “My name’s Stewart. My pard is Coleman.”
“We know who you are,” the man snapped. “You left here under arrest this mornin’.”
“Well, we’re not under arrest now,” said Wilbur without lookin
g up from the book with its flimsy yellow cover and dense, tiny print.
“That’s right,” said Stovepipe. “We’ve done paid our debt to society.”
“That doesn’t explain what you were doing with Dan Hartford, or how come the three of you showed up so convenient-like not long after the boss was killed.”
“Are you saying you think we had anything to do with that?” asked Wilbur. “If you are, you’d better go ahead and spit it out plain.”
“I wasn’t talkin’ to you, you little redheaded gink,” said the man. He gestured toward Stovepipe. “I was talkin’ to this scarecrow.”
That finally prompted Wilbur to set the book aside and start to stand up from his bunk, but Stovepipe lifted a hand slightly and Wilbur subsided.
“Reckon I do have a mite of a resemblance to a scarecrow,” Stovepipe said. “That don’t mean I enjoy bein’ reminded of it.”
“I don’t give a hang what you enjoy, jailbird. This is an honest crew, and we don’t like havin’ no-account saddle tramps forced on us.”
“Well, I reckon you can take that up with the boss,” said Stovepipe coolly.
“No, I can’t. He’s dead. And if he was still alive, he never would’ve hired the likes of you two!”
Stovepipe had continued working on his revolver while he talked. He didn’t need to pay a great deal of attention to the task. He had carried it out so many times over the years that his fingers did the necessary work almost without any mental urging.
Finished now, he picked up the cartridges he had removed from the gun earlier and laid them on the bunk. As he thumbed them into the cylinder, he said quietly, “Looks like this might turn out to be a plumb unfriendly place, Wilbur.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that idea,” Wilbur responded in a hard, angry voice.
The burly cowboy who had confronted them looked a little less sure of himself now, and that feeling seemed to grow as Stovepipe snapped the gun’s cylinder closed. The man relaxed slightly, however, as Stovepipe slid the Colt into the holster attached to the coiled shell belt he had also placed on the bunk.
Stovepipe stood up. With a friendly smile on his rugged face, he said, “Wilbur and me, we ain’t lookin’ for any trouble. Now, I’ll admit, sometimes it seems like trouble looks for us, because it sure enough finds us pretty often. But all we want is to do the jobs we signed on for.”
The Range Detectives Page 20
