A deep sigh escaped his lips. Rattler was likely the only one he knew in town. That hurt, seeing the man cut down the way he had been, but somehow, leaving behind his mare, saddle, and the rest of his tack tormented him even more.
“I know a gent who’d be willing to pay top dollar for such a fine horse, but you got to sell the saddle, too. It’s mighty fine. The work that went into it shows a master leather smith at his peak, yes, sir.” The liveryman cocked his head to one side and studied Mac as if he were a bug crawling up the wall.
“Give me a few bucks, another horse and saddle, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Can’t rightly do that till I see if I can sell the stallion. I’m runnin’ a bit shy on cash. You wait here, let me take the horse and see if the price is right. I might get you as much as a hundred dollars.”
“That much?” Mac felt his hackles rise. “That and another horse and tack?”
“Don’t see horses this spirited come along too often. And that saddle?” The man shook his head. “Once in a lifetime.”
“Do tell. So what’s to keep you from taking the horse and riding away?”
“I own the yard. I got a reputation to uphold for honesty. Ask around. You go find yourself some breakfast. Might be, I can get you as much as a hundred-fifty dollars.”
“And that’s after you take your cut?”
“Right after,” the man assured him.
Mac knew he lied through his teeth.
“Is there a good restaurant around here? Not that it matters since I don’t have money for even a fried egg and a cup of water.” He waited to see what the man offered. The response assured him he was right.
“Here, take five dollars. An advance against what I’ll make selling the horse. That means I’ll take it out of your share.”
“Thanks,” Mac said, taking the five crumpled greenbacks. He stuffed them into his vest pocket. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“Not long. Not more ’n a half hour. That’ll give you plenty of time to chow down and drink a second cup of coffee. Maggie over at the Bendix House boils up a right fine cup.”
“Bendix House? That’s it over there? Much obliged.” Mac touched the brim of his hat, making sure not to show the hole shot through and through. He let the man lead the horse away, then started for the restaurant.
Only when the liveryman was out of sight did Mac spin around and run back to the yard. A quick vault over the fence took him to the barn. Rooting around, he found a serviceable saddle, threadbare blanket, bridle, and saddlebags. He pressed his hand against them. Empty. Right now, he didn’t have time to search for food or anything more to put in them. He needed a slicker and a change of clothing.
Most of all he needed to leave. Now.
Picking a decent-looking mare from the corral took only a few seconds. The one who trotted over to him was the one he stole. Less than a minute later, saddle and bridle hastily put on, he rode out.
As he came out on Rusk Street, he caught sight of a small posse galloping in his direction. He couldn’t make out the riders’ faces, but they all wore black coats that might as well have been a uniform. Putting his heels to his horse’s flanks, he galloped away, cut behind the wagon yard’s buildings, and then faced a dilemma. Going south took him past the railroad and onto the prairie.
The flat, barren prairie where he could be seen riding for miles.
Mac rode back past Houston Street and immediately dismounted, leading his horse to the side of the Comique Saloon. He had to vanish, and losing himself among the late night—or early morning now—imbibers was the best way to do it. The wagon yard owner would be hard-pressed to identify which horse was missing from a corral with a couple dozen animals in it. Mac cursed himself for not leaving the gate open so all the horses escaped.
“Confusion to my enemies,” he muttered. Two quick turns of the bridle through an iron ring secured his mount. He circled the building and started to go into the saloon.
“Door’s locked,” came the warning from a man sitting in a chair on the far side of the door. He had his hat pulled down to shield his eyes from the rising sun and the chair tilted back on its hind legs.
“Do tell.” Mac nervously looked around, expecting to see the posse on his trail closing in. He took the chair next to the man, duplicated his pose, and pulled his hat down, more to hide his face than to keep the sunlight from blinding him. “When do they open?”
“John Leer’s got quite a place here. But he don’t keep real hours. It’s open when it’s needed most. Otherwise, he closes up.”
“Catches some shut-eye?”
The man laughed.
“Hardly. He’s got a half dozen floozies in as many bawdy houses, or so the rumor goes. Servicing all of them takes up his spare time.”
“You figuring on waiting long for him to get back?”
The man pushed his hat back and looked over at Mac. He spat on the boardwalk, repositioned himself precariously in the chair, and crossed his arms over his chest before answering.
“Depends. I’m hunting for cowboys. The boss man sends me out to recruit for a drive. I come here to find who’s drunkest. They’re usually the most likely to agree to the lousy wages and a trip long enough to guarantee saddle sores on your butt.”
“You might come here and make such an appealing pitch, but I suspect you offer top dollar.” Mac tensed when a rider galloped past. The man wore a plaid shirt and jeans. He relaxed. Not a bounty hunter.
“You’re the type I’m looking for. Real smart fellow, you are. My trail boss wouldn’t want a drunk working for him, and the boss man was a teetotaler. His wife’s one of them temperance women. More ’n that, she’s one of them suffer-ay-jets, they call ’em. Can’t say I cotton much to going without a snort now and then, and giving women the vote like up in Wyoming’s just wrong but—”
“But out on the trail nobody drinks. The cook keeps the whiskey, for medicinal purposes only.”
“You been on a drive?”
“Along the Shawnee Trail.” Mac’s mind raced. Losing himself among a new crew driving cattle would solve most of his problems.
“That’s not the way the Circle Arrow herd’s headed. We’re pushing west along the Goodnight-Loving Trail.”
“Don’t know it,” Mac admitted.
“Don’t matter. Mister Flowers has been along it enough times that he can ride it blindfolded.”
“Flowers?”
“Hiram Flowers, the best damned trail boss in Texas. Or so I’m told, since I’ve only worked for a half dozen in my day.” The man rocked forward and thrust out his hand. “My name’s Cletus Grant. I do the chores Mister Flowers don’t like.”
“Finding trail hands is one of them?” Mac asked as he clasped the man’s hand.
“He doesn’t stray far from the Circle Arrow.”
“What’s that mean?” Mac shifted so his hand rested on his gun when another rider came down the street. He went cold inside when he remembered he hadn’t reloaded. Truth to tell, all his spare ammunition was in his saddlebags, on his horse left somewhere behind another saloon in Hell’s Half Acre.
When the rider rode on after seeing the Comique was shuttered, Mac tried to mask his move by shifting in the chair. He almost toppled over.
He covered by asking, “You said the Circle Arrow owner was a teetotaler. He fall off the wagon?”
“His missus wouldn’t ever allow that, no, sir. He upped and died six months back, in spite of his missus telling him not to catch that fever. Old Zeke Sullivan should have listened that time. About the only time he didn’t do as she told him.” Cletus spat again, wiped his mouth, and asked, “You looking for a job?”
“I’m a piss-poor cowboy, but there’s no better chuckwagon cook in all of Texas. Or so I’m told, since I’ve only worked for the Rolling J in my day.”
Cletus Grant’s expression turned blank for a moment, then he laughed.
“You got a sharp wit about you, son. I don’t know that Mister Flowers is lookin
g for a cook, but he does need trail hands. Why don’t me and you mosey on out to the Circle Arrow and palaver a mite about the chance you’d ride with us to Santa Fe?”
Notes
1 See the novel Blood Bond: Arizona Ambush.
The Range Detectives Page 30
