by Lou Bradshaw
“Let me tell you a little secret, Turner… This big ugly dog was once a Shoshone shaman with magical powers, but a spirit put a hex on him and turned him into a dog…. But he still has big medicine, and he can tell when someone’s lying… he really can.”
I reached over and took his right hand and pressed it flat on the counter, and then I spread his fingers with the blade of my tomahawk. He was sweating so much, I was afraid he’d start drawing horse flies.
“Now we’re goin’ to find out how truthful a man you are. I’m gonna ask some questions, and each time you lie to me, I’m gonna cut a finger off at the big knuckle. And Dog here is goin’ to tell me if you’re lyin’.” He tried to pull his hand back, but I didn’t let it budge an inch.
“You ready, Dog?” The brute looked up and yawned. “All right Turner… here we go…. Did you send those telegraphs off for that young man, that were signed Cain?”
“I… uh…a… of course I did.”
I looked down at Dog, and he made a noise that sounded like, “mmurff.” So I raised the hatchet a few inches and got it lined up over the first digit.
“No… no.. no! That was a mistake…. No… I was told not to… please… no.”
After that, I never had to raise the hatchet again. I learned that the man Fargo had promised him fifty dollars to let him know when a man named Cain showed up with a boy. He was told by Fargo not to send any of the messages from Cain, and Fargo had sent a message to R. Rankin in El Paso that had only one word…. “Done.”
That didn’t sound good.
Chapter 13
“I’m sending two messages, and don’t mess with me.” I told him and put my tomahawk away.
While he was repairing the wires I’d cut I pulled my six-shooter and motioned for Dog to watch him. When I told him to watch someone or something, he puts his nose as close to their face as possible… You can imagine how uncomfortable that can be.
“The first goes to Cal Bailey… somewhere along the T&WC line. Tell him,
“Had the boy here in…” I had to ask Turner the name of the town. …”Snake Junction, Arizona. He was taken by a white man named Fargo… working for R. Rankin of El Paso, Tex. Starting search now.”
“Was that to go to Captain Bailey?” he asked as he began to realize the trouble he could be in.
“That’s right… now you send the same message to Alan Banister with the same address.”
“That little ‘Injun’ boy you helped get snatched, is the only grandchild of Alan Banister the president of this railroad. Now was that fifty dollars worth being black balled by every railroad in the country?”
“I couldn’t tell you… he ain’t paid me yet.”
As I was leaving, I saw my saddle layin in the corner of the room. “Am I supposed to trust that everything belonging to this saddle is here? Or am I going to have to come back and get it?”
He reached under the counter and pulled out two small wood carvings I’d made. I just looked at him and growled.
The first place I went was to the corral, where I turned the Apache pony in and took Bud out. He seemed happy to see me, as he turned his head around to nip the fringes on my buckskin shirt. Dog was plenty happy to see him too. Him and that pony never did hit it off.
The general store was my next stop. Tobe and the little fella had eaten through enough to feed a trail drive. But they were still growing, so they’d need a lot. I loaded up on the staples, some canned peaches, and dried apples. I like a little sweetness now and then.
And then to the saloon to check on Tobe and see what I could find out about this man called Fargo. He was well known in the saloon. His face and surly attitude were well known, but no one had recalled talking to him except for Norm, the bartender, and all he got out of him was “rye”.
I was able to find out that he’d been in Snake Junction for about two weeks. He was about thirty years old, roughly six foot tall, long stringy black hair, heavy thick eyebrows, and a black droopy mustache. The general opinion was he looked like he was always in deep shadows. One fella said, “He ain’t got no color at all… what ain’t black is some level of gray.” They seemed to think he was waiting for someone or something. I’d say that was pretty bright of them fellas.
I was just about to put my foot into the stirrup, when Turner came running from the station yelling,
“Mister Cain… Mister Cain, wait up… I got a message from Captain Bailey. He shoved a sheet of yellow paper in my face. I took it and studied the writing. I’d have to give Turner credit for having a good and neat hand at writing. I get a little fuddled sometimes with fancy writing. The message read:
Cain, wait for me… I’ll be there by 10: tomorrow morning, Cal
“Looks like I’ll be spending the night… there a hotel or boardinghouse here?”
“No, but you can sleep in the tool shed.”
“I’ll sleep in the station.”
He started to tell me that he couldn’t allow it, but something must have changed his mind because he said “Excellent idea.”
I put Bud back in the corral and gave him a little attention. He seemed to like it, but he was like Dog when it came to being talked to, he just kept his opinion to himself. There was only one trail in or out of Snake Junction, and it was rarely used. There were a number of scattered ranches up in the hills, and they had been going to Tucson for supplies. But when the railroad built this little whistle stop town, the ranchers saved themselves an eighty mile round trip. But they only came about once a month for supplies.
Dog and me took a little stroll up that trail, just to see if there were any fresh tracks worth looking at. I was able to find some not more than two or three days old. They were the freshest tracks on the trail. And whoever made them was in a hurry to get someplace or to get away from someplace.
Walking back, I took stock of what I’d accomplished today, and it wasn’t pretty. I’d lost a boy that I’d looked for and had to kill for, and just when I thought I had him safe somebody took him. And that same somebody nearly killed a young man who’d been a considerable help to me. I did a lot of ranting and threatening… and almost cut some fingers off. When Cal gets here, I just might drop this whole package in his lap…. I reckon not.
The train Captain Bailey was on was a two car affair, which pulled onto the siding. Cal jumped off before the train was completely stopped and covered the short distance to the platform in a few seconds. I was waiting at the ticket window.
“You had him… what happened?”
I told him about Tobe following me into the desert and me keeping him. Then I told him how I stayed to keep those five Paches off ‘em.
“And by the time I got here… about a day behind ‘em. Some fella named Fargo shot Tobe and took the boy. The telegraph man didn’t send Tobe’s message and let Fargo know where the boy was. I was just steppin’ in the saddle when your message came in.”
“How bad is Crocket? Is he up to talking?”
I told him he was and we went over to the saloon. When we walked through the swinging doors, and Norm saw who I was with, he nearly swallowed his cigar and caught himself halfway into a salute. We just walked on through the barroom and into the back room.
Tobe had known Cal as just another traveler on the trail to Tucson, but when he saw him in his city clothes he didn’t know how to act. But Cal assured him he was just plain Cal Bailey, whose campfire he shared. Tobe told his story of the run across the desert, and how, the man Fargo just stepped in and shot him.
“It may not be my place to say anything, Cal, but that’s a right fine little fella. When we started across the desert, he couldn’t talk too much English, but after a day and a half with him he was remembering it. But it was all baby kinda talk… I guess he wasn’t much more than a baby when they took him… He had that picture of his ma that Cain gave him, and he’d look at it and say ‘ma-ma…. It’d just break your heart, Cal.”
Cal didn’t say anything, he just looked at the toe of his high polished boot and l
aid a hand on Tobe’s shoulder. Then he went to the door and called someone named Schrader, which turned out to be Norm the bartender.
“Corporal, do you suppose you can get a couple of fellas to rig up a litter and carry this young man over to the train? And ask Foo Chen to set up a cot in the parlor… And would you be so good as to stop at the station and have Turner come see me?”
It seems that Norm Schrader had served with Captain Bailey up in the Dakotas. He explained as we waited for Turner to show up. That would explain Norm’s reaction earlier.
“Cain, we have to get that boy back…. I don’t know if Eleanor can stand to lose him a second time… She was so excited and anxious; she sent a letter to her cousin Robert Rankin telling him all about it. Bob Rankin is her only relative other than her father and little Alan…Banister raised Rankin and Eleanor as brother and sister. Then he gave him a mid management position expecting him to advance… he didn’t.”
“Al Banister is a very wealthy man, and if anything were to happen to the boy and Eleanor, Rankin would be the only heir… I’m not saying Rankin is involved in anything like that, but I have two railroad detectives ready to pick him up when I give the word. I also have two men watching after Eleanor… she doesn’t know the reason yet, but she doesn’t like it.”
Turner came through the door with hat in hand, and he was promptly shoved into the room by Schrader saying,
“Here he is, Captain, and the lad’s all tucked in over there.”
“Thank you, Norm… you’ve been a big help.” Schrader spun on his heel and left.
“Turner, you’re through here…Your greed has caused all hell to bust loose. A man was nearly killed, and Banister’s grandson was kidnapped. All because you were more loyal to a man you’d never seen before than to the railroad that feeds you… You’ll be on house arrest until this all gets settled one way or another. If the boy is killed, you could be facing serious prison time or worse… Don’t even think about leaving town… Now get out of my sight.”
We went back into the barroom and I told him, I was ready to get going before the trail got too cold. He agreed it was best.
“I wish I could go with you, Cain, but I’m more useful here than I would be out there.”
“Don’t give it another thought, I work best alone.”
Chapter 14
It didn’t take much effort to pick up that trail again. “Well, Dog, looks like we’re on the trail again.” I didn’t expect anything from Dog because that was just a statement of fact, and he already knew it.
The trail led out of town and along the San Pedro River north. It was wide open country with a few mountain ranges scattered about. I didn’t know if they could be actually called ranges or groups. They seemed to be clusters of rugged low mountains with a few dominant peaks standing above the rest.
I didn’t expect any towns up this way, and the farther I went the more confident I became in my expectations. About mid afternoon, I spotted a house setting on a knoll back about fifty yards from the river. I reckoned the San Pedro got a little rambunctious in the spring of the year. In fact it was bank high at that very moment…. Couple of months later, and the catfish would be walking around on the gravel bottom.
When I rode up to the cabin door, a tough raw boned ranch woman walked out on the front porch. She had a double barreled Greener resting in the crook of her arm, and it didn’t take a smart man to see that she knew what to do with it…. I knew it right off.
“Afternoon, Misses,” I said with my best smile, “I been trailing an hombre, who stole a little towheaded boy down in Snake Junction, a few days back. He shot the young fella who was takin’ care of him. That boy was dressed like an Injun.”
“Well he ain’t dressed like a Injun no more… That galoot just rode into the yard and yanked a pair of my boy’s overalls and a shirt off the clothesline, and rode off like it was nothin’. Now I gotta make little Sammy some new britches and a shirt.”
“My man took the shotgun out that morning to do some varmint shootin’, or I’d a sure dusted that feller.”
“Could you tell me which way they was headin’, ma’am?”
She swung that shotgun around to the northwest and held it out at arm’s length; it was something I’d never seen a woman do. Then she pointed it at what could be low laying clouds or a far off mountain range.
“He’s most likely goin’ up there on Rincon.”
“Rincon the name of the range?”
“Naw… it’s just the tallest of ‘em…Cain’t miss it. But be careful. There’s a whole passel of owl hoots up there… They got themselves a town full of bad hombres.”
I thanked her and went to the river to water my critters and fill the canteens. There was water between me and them, but I didn’t want to have to go looking for it. There were cattle out there, but they mostly would go to the river for water because it looked almighty dry.
Most of the ground around the ranch was chewed up by the coming and goings of cattle, but once we got clear of that, I picked up the trail again. It was farther than it looked to the mountains. But mountains will do that to a person. The first time I saw the Rockies, I figured we’d be there the next day. But we were only in the foothills three days later. I thought I knew mountains back in Tennessee, but I had to change my thinking a might. Those tall mountains sure have a way of making a man get all humble.
I was in the foot hills by noon of the next day. There was a trail of sorts running through them. Sometimes it ran left of a hill, sometimes it was on the right, and sometimes it went over the top.
Once I got up on the mountain slope, the path all but disappeared. It wasn’t more than a worn place with a little bit of rock and dirt showing through the pine needles and ground cover. It was a twister and had its share of switchbacks. There were a few cabins built back off the trail.
As I was topping out a little rise, I saw a raggedy old crone filling a pail from a spring below her cabin. I tipped my hat, but she didn’t say anything. She just looked at me with lifeless eyes. I had the feeling, she was looking at me but not seeing me. She probably wasn’t more than fifty years old, but she looked to be much older. She was dressed in near rags and a man’s shoes. A wise man once said that everybody had a story. I figured that old gal’s story would plumb break your heart.
Since I didn’t know who I could trust up here, I wasn’t comfortable asking about Fargo and the boy. So I just rode on. If this trail was the main one going in and out of that outlaw town… then folks up there didn’t do much traveling.
I wasn’t going to make it to the top before night fall, so I found a nice little meadow about half way up. It was something akin to a small hanging valley, it had water, grass, and enough cover for a fire. The air was cool up in the pines, and I had the best night’s sleep in many a week.
The following morning found me on the south side of Rincon Peak at about seven thousand feet. I saw more and more cabins off in woods and more trails going this way and that. I figured they were leading to more cabins. So this outlaw town may not be a real town as we know it, but maybe just a gathering of cabins.
As the trail took a turn to the right, I was looking at miles and miles of desert stretched out below me. I was facing southwest and Tucson in the hazy distance. Off to the south, I could see a train steaming along like a tiny black worm.
The trail was much wider and well defined at that point. I reckon it was traveled a bit more than it was back down on the other side. The trail started to descend and dropped several hundred feet before it leveled off. Where the trail leveled off, a man made clearing appeared on an area that covered about five or six acres. Scattered around the clearing, there were roughly a dozen structures, which included some pretty ornery cabins, a few low down dug-outs, and some sagging disreputable shacks. None of them looked to have been made by skilled carpenters.
So there was a town up here after all. It even had a name, and was calling itself No Place. I figured that summed it up as well as anything. When
I called it a man made clearing, it was an easy call. They had left the stumps where they were along with all the debris that went with clearing land was scattered around. No attempts had been made at getting rid of the stumps, so if a fella was going to a neighbor’s house, he’d just wind his way around ‘em.
The biggest and best looking building in the whole shebang was the only business; of course it was a saloon. The sign over the door read, “No Place… Like It”. And below that in smaller letters it said, “Saloon & Tradin Post”. All they needed was a school and a church to get on the map makers lists… Somehow I couldn’t see that happening soon.
I’ve slept in cabins, caves, and from time to time in trees. And I reckoned I’d find me a nice camp site before I took a bed in one of those. I wasn’t even giving any thought to knocking on any of those doors, seeking directions. So I tied up outside the saloon and went inside.
For an outlaw town saloon, it wasn’t as bad as some of the cow town saloons I’d been in. I guess outlaws set higher standards than some folks who spend their lives with a bunch of smelly cows. Either that or they got their priorities lined up right. All that really didn’t matter to me, what I really wanted to do was make my presence known to this man they called Fargo.
From what I was able to untangle back there in Snake Junction, was Fargo had been hired to kill the boy and if need be the man with him…. That man was supposed to be me, so I took it kinda personal.
“Rye.” I told the bartender.
He brought it and set it in front of me and sort of offhandedly said,
“You’re new here… but you got the look… What might you be runnin’ from?”
“Mostly civilization.”
“I ain’t never seen that man run from anythin’.” Came a voice from down the bar on my right. I didn’t have to look, I knew the voice. It belonged to a fella that took shelter with my bunch one season… We never knew what he was running from, but he whined and groused until we sent him on his way…. He was named something like Perry or Harper’s Ferry for all I cared to remember.
