by Lauran Paine
Ethan halted in tree shade, strained ahead for a silent moment, then said quietly: “Well, we were right. It’s a stage, and a little band of riders have stopped it.”
John eased up where he could see what his father-in-law could see, and he grunted his confirmation as he sat as still as Ethan was sitting.
Chapter Eleven
Without mentioning what he had in mind, MacCallister turned and rode off westerly through the giant old cottonwoods, passing in and out of their mottled, silvery shade until he was within a half mile of the road. There, he halted, got down, stood at his animal’s head staring toward the south. When John came up and also dismounted, Ethan said: “No sense in pushing on down there. Let Thorne have his say. I could’ve wished we’d gotten to that fellow first, but since that was out of the question, I reckon we’ll just have to settle for second place.”
“You figure to halt the coach?” John asked.
Ethan nodded. “Yeah, we’ll stop it. But don’t ask me what comes next, because I don’t know.”
For nearly a half hour, they stood in the shade before those tiny horsemen far southward swung away, heading eastward in a lope. They watched Thorne and his men to make sure they were not going to change course suddenly, ride north, and perhaps discover that Sherman County’s brace of lawmen were also waiting to waylay the same stage.
As soon as it became apparent that Thorne had something else in mind, Ethan relaxed and said: “In a way, I almost hope he does try heading on up into Cheyenne Pass again.”
That dust cloud beat upward again, and after a while it became possible to make out the vehicle causing it. The coach was one of those Deadwood stages suspended upon thoroughbrace leather springs, which gave it a viability found in very few other horse-drawn vehicles, and while this was held firmly by its makers to promote better riding for passengers, there was some vociferous disagreement with this for the basic reason that these coaches did not only rock forward and back upon those leather springs, but the vehicle also rocked from side to side, which made everyone susceptible to seasickness not only uneasy but sometimes even offensively ill. In fact, as MacCallister and Klinger watched the oncoming stage, they got the definite impression that this particular coach had some additional refinements to it, which made it appear to buck and pitch even more than was normal for such vehicles.
John commented upon this, but Ethan’s entire concern was upon one passenger in that coach, and he said nothing about the lurching and rolling as the vehicle beat on up toward them, scuffing up great gobbets of rearward dust.
When the driver and shotgun guard were discernible at long last, Ethan turned, stepped up, and eased his horse ahead on out of the trees. John followed him, and the pair of them passed out into full view.
While they were still a half mile ahead, both lawmen rode to the roadway’s center and drew rein. They had been sighted, of course, and the driver, along with the shotgun guard upon the overhead seat, seemed stiffly wary and very alert.
MacCallister raised his left arm to halt the coach. It slowed, the horses broke over from their easy lope to a slamming trot, and the noise of harness and coach both increased as it drew closer.
The badges of both MacCallister and Klinger were in plain sight upon their shirtfronts. Evidently, the two wary coachmen upon the high seat had caught reflections from those symbols of local authority, for they seemed to slacken away from their former stiffness as the horses slowed again, coming down to a fast walk.
MacCallister waited until the driver set his brake before reining out of the roadway, passing along beside the teams, and halting with John at his side, near the fore wheel. A great, shaggy head poked itself out of a side window and bawled up at the driver. Two fierce eyes in a very fat, moon-shaped face suddenly saw Ethan and John, saw the badges, and that massive passenger abruptly closed his mouth and withdrew his head.
A second later the coach lurched, the door was flung back, and an imposing fat man stepped out. He was attired in the clothing of a big-city dweller. Despite enormous crescents at each armpit and wildly flowing curly hair, this man exuded authority. As Klinger regarded this stranger, he had his answer to why the coach had been listing and plunging so noticeably as it beat its way up the road. That fat man had to weigh three hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce.
MacCallister also considered the passenger. He made no move to dismount as he stared, and when that huge man started forward, balancing upon the balls of his feet, the deputy was surprised at the ease of his movements. He wasn’t all fat; somewhere under all that meat was a powerful set of muscles.
The big man halted, shaded his eyes from sunlight, and stood a moment, staring first at MacCallister, then on over at Klinger. Finally, he dropped his shading hand, scowled darkly, and said: “Just exactly what is the meaning of this?” He was indignant. More than that, he was antagonistic.
Ethan sighed. Evidently, Thorne had done his work well.
“Mister,” John began, “my name is Klinger. John Klinger. I’m sheriff of Sherman County. This here is Ethan MacCallister, my deputy. Are you the stage-line executive who wired that he was coming up to Winchester?”
“I am!” barked the big man, abruptly inclining his leonine head. “The name is Charles Mather. Now will you men tell me why you stopped this stage?”
“Sure,” John replied in a quiet voice. “Be glad to. Because we want to know if you’re the one responsible for sending Ray Thorne to Winchester.”
“I am. What of that?”
“Did you know who Thorne was when you hired him?”
Charles Mather fisted a handkerchief, made a quick swipe at his perspiring face with it, then dropped the hand, still with the handkerchief in it, and squinted truculently up at the sheriff.
“If you mean did I know Ray Thorne was a doer instead of a talker … yes, I knew that. Why else would I have sent him here?”
“More than just a doer, Mr. Mather,” MacCallister informed him. “A killer. When he stopped your coach down the road a while back, did he tell you he sent two men up to Cheyenne Pass with dynamite to force a fight last night?”
“Deputy,” exclaimed the copiously perspiring fat man, “what stage company employees tell me in confidence goes no further.”
“In that case,” shot back MacCallister, “I reckon we’d better make you a proposition, Mr. Mather.”
“What proposition?” the fat man shouted as he glared.
“You talk, or you go to jail,” MacCallister stated evenly, and leaned back in his saddle, crossed both hands upon his saddle horn, and gave Charles Mather as hard a stare as Mather threw out at Ethan.
“This is an outrage,” sputtered Mather. “What authority have you to …?”
“Rope it,” MacCallister snapped flintily. “We’re not going to sit out here and argue with you all day, Mather. What did you and Ray Thorne cook up when he stopped this stage an hour or so ago?”
“We didn’t cook up anything. He simply made his report to me.”
“And what did he report?’
“That this man Richard DeFore … and the local law … twice circumvented our coaches from rolling up through Cheyenne Pass, and that he now has hired some riders to go out with the next coach to make certain that it gets through. He also told me the law in Winchester County is hand-in-glove with this DeFore person, probably for the purpose of extorting money from the stage company. Does that suit you, Deputy?”
“Suits me fine,” replied MacCallister, glancing over at John.
The sheriff nodded and fixed Mather with a wintry gaze. “It suits me fine as well,” Klinger said, “because all we wanted to be sure of is that Thorne is a complete liar and that you mean to back him up in forcing a war on the county.”
“Forcing a war,” the indignant stage-line official roared. “Who closed this Cheyenne Pass in the first place? Who sent his crew out to ambush two of our riders last ni
ght? Who is trying to force this company to pay money for using a public thoroughfare?”
“Mister,” Klinger replied coldly now, “in the first place, Cheyenne Pass is not a dedicated road, and as far as I know, it never has been. In the second place, no one ambushed Thorne’s men last night … but they shot Richard DeFore’s foreman, and we’ve got the dynamite they were carrying in our office in town right now.” He paused to suck back a big breath before going on. “And finally, I’ve never heard DeFore or anyone except Thorne mention extortion of money from your stage line.”
“Haven’t you now,” ranted the fat man. “What do you think a toll road is, if it’s not an attempt at extortion?”
MacCallister cut in here: “Mr. Mather, you’re a fool if you believe Ray Thorne. That man’s reputation is notorious. You’re also a bigger fool if you believe half of what he’s told you. And you may wind up a dead fool if you arrive in Winchester today breathing fire and brimstone like you’re doing now, because this morning Richard DeFore rode into town fired up for a fight. Now I know that maybe that doesn’t mean much to you, but take it from me, DeFore eats fellows like you for breakfast when he’s roiled up.”
“Hah!” the big man guffawed. “I see that Thorne didn’t lie about one thing. The law hereabouts is on DeFore’s side. Well, gentlemen, let me tell you something. I’ve come here with a free hand from the president and vice-president of the company. I also came here with an open checkbook. If DeFore wants a fight, I can personally guarantee him one. Thorne said all we need is money to hire fighters, and I have brought that money.”
The fat man whipped back around, reached for the stage door, and lightly got back inside. As he seated himself, he leaned forward to slam the door closed at the same time that MacCallister eased up his horse, put out a hand to hold the door open. He looked down into Mather’s sweat-shiny and angry-eyed countenance.
He said: “Mr. Mather, have you ever been under arrest before?”
Those angry eyes clouded. “Before …?”
“Yes, Mr. Mather … before. Because, you see, you’re under arrest now.”
MacCallister gave the stage door a hard slam, whirled his horse, and halted beside the fore-wheel again. As Mather’s leonine head came thrusting through the window behind him, the deputy sheriff said: “Driver, head out. We’ll ride on each side of your coach. Don’t head for the stage office when you get into Winchester. Stop a half block south of the office at the county jailhouse. And driver …” Ethan smiled upward coldly. “Don’t do anything foolish, because we’ve got plenty of empty cells this time of year.”
The driver shook his head. “No,” he said, “I won’t do anything foolish.” He rolled his eyes as Charles Mather let off a string of furious profanity from within the coach.
The two lawmen split up when the coach began rolling forward, one on either side as the vehicle gained speed and momentum. Once or twice they exchanged sober looks, but mostly they galloped along, thinking their private thoughts.
* * * * *
It was afternoon by the time Winchester came into sight beyond the black-rock pass. By the time the coach hit Winchester’s outskirts and the driver slowed his horses, both Ethan and John were mantled with the dust the vehicle they had accompanied had stirred up. People upon the walkways turned to look, then halted to stand, mouths agape, as the stage wheeled in at the jailhouse and creaked down to a halt. Up the roadway Hank Weaver was standing in front of his office, green eyeshade on, clipboard in hand, looking nonplussed.
MacCallister swung down, jerked open the door, and motioned for Charles Mather to alight. The fat man did, but as he turned his fiery red face upon Ethan, John came up and cut across the fat man’s forming words with a curt order.
“Inside … and shut up!”
Mather’s mouth snapped closed. He looked straight at the sheriff, saw nothing but toughness and willingness in John’s face, and stalked on around the coach. As he moved out, John fell in behind him, herding Mather into his office.
MacCallister stepped along to where he could see the driver and affably said: “Thanks, son. You were right cooperative. Now you’d better take the coach on up where that fellow with the eyeshade is standing, because he’s about to burst with questions.” Then he stepped away.
The coach lurched on toward the stage office, and after it had passed, MacCallister took his and John’s horses, walked up through the roadway dust as far as the livery barn, and left the animals there with Lemuel. He then headed back toward the jailhouse and, in so doing, was obliged to pass the spot where a little cluster of men were crowded up around Hank Weaver and the driver who’d tooled Charles Mather’s stage into town.
He would have marched past without speaking, but Clem Whipple stopped him. “Ethan, for Pete’s sake, what’s goin’ on?”
“Don’t worry, Clem,” Ethan said dismissively, and continued on by.
“Don’t worry!” Clem exclaimed shrilly, as he ran as best he could, trying to keep up with the deputy. “Haven’t you heard … old man DeFore’s been back in town? He’s over at the telegraph office right now, and folks are sayin’ he’s wired for a whole damned army of gunfighters to come up here and join him in bustin’ the stage line.”
Ethan’s stomach knotted up. He stared at Clem, at gray-faced Weaver, and at the other townsmen standing there with them. Two of those men—one Dr. Shirley and the other man Winchester’s most prominent hotel and saloon owner—looked gravely at Ethan and inclined their heads.
“It’s true, Deputy,” said the doctor. “When DeFore stopped in to see how Browne was getting along, he told me he was going to teach those stage company hotshots down in Denver a lesson they’d never forget.”
MacCallister turned away, his face frozen, and continued on his way toward the jailhouse.
Chapter Twelve
Sheriff Klinger had Charles Mather booked and locked up by the time Ethan returned. He was examining a little pearl-handled under-and-over .41-caliber pistol when Ethan walked in. He held the gun up for Ethan to see.
“Took it off Mather,” John said. “Two shots, then you’re all through.”
“Never mind that,” Ethan said. “Come on over to the telegraph office with me.”
There was something in his father-in-law’s face that drew the sheriff abruptly out of his chair. Without a word, he put down the little double-barreled gun and followed Ethan back out into the roadway. The pair of them hiked straight over to the telegraph office, and there Ethan said to the telegrapher: “Al, I know it’s against the rules, but I’ve got to see the copy of that wire Richard DeFore sent.”
The telegrapher said nothing. He offered no excuses and no arguments. He simply picked up a yellow slip of paper and placed it squarely in front of MacCallister upon the counter. He stood there as the two lawmen read it. When they looked up, he told them: “I was going to fetch it over as soon as I knew you fellows were back in town.”
John poked a finger at the name of the man to whom that telegram was addressed and said to Ethan: “Who’s he … some special gunslinger?”
“He,” pronounced Ethan, “is the man who recruited the gunmen for Wyoming’s cattlemen in the Johnson County War.”
Ethan stood a moment in frowning concentration, then he faced the telegrapher, regarded him skeptically a moment, asked for a pencil, and turned DeFore’s telegram over. He began to write a message upon the back of it. When he finished, he handed back the pencil, slid the paper over, and tapped it.
“Send this to the same man,” he instructed the telegrapher. “It tells him there has been a settlement of differences here in Sherman County, and he won’t have to recruit the gunfighters after all.”
The telegrapher read what Ethan had written and nodded. He raised amused eyes and said: “Ethan, whose signature do I put … DeFore’s?”
Ethan met that little whimsical smile with a bleak and humorless grin of his own
. “Yeah, Richard DeFore’s name. A man might as well get hung for a lion as a sheep. Since I’ve got to be a liar, I might as well be a big one.”
MacCallister put a silver dollar upon the counter and led his son-in-law back out into the roadway. Here and there, in front of the store fronts, men stood in little groups talking. Over in front of the stage office where Hank Weaver, Clem Whipple, and several others stood, Ethan saw the lank form of Weaver disengage itself from the others and start resolutely southward. He sighed.
“Hurry it up, John. Hank’s trying to catch up with us. No doubt he’s wants to let us know his feelings about us halting the stage and arresting his boss.”
They returned to the jailhouse and arrived at the doorway just as Weaver came up. The stage-line manager furrowed his brow into a series of deep rolls and ridges. He stepped on inside as Ethan beckoned him to, then, when the three of them were in the office, Hank did exactly as Ethan had prophesied.
“I think I know what you’re trying to do,” Weaver said in a squeaky voice, his eyes twitching nervously at the two lawmen, “but if you keep Mr. Mather locked up, it’s only going to make things worse.”
“How can it make things worse?” John grumbled as he stepped over to the stove to get the fire going for coffee. “Thorne stopped the stage and filled Mather full of lies.” John poked in the ashes, found some hot coals, and carefully placed kindling atop them as his father-in-law came over with the coffeepot.
Ethan said soothingly: “Just keep out of it, Hank, and you’ll likely live to be a very old man.”
“But Mr. Mather is one of the top men in the company, Ethan. Doesn’t that mean anything? I mean, he’s not the type to make trouble and …”
“Hank,” John said, straightening around. “How well do you know Charles Mather?”
