Rocky Mountain Retribution (The Ames Archives Book 2)

by Peter Grant

  “Are you really gonna write to their families?”

  “Sure. If I died, I’d want someone to tell my people about it.”

  “But then they’ll know you killed them,” Sandy objected. “What if they come lookin’ for evens, or send someone after you?”

  “I’ll tell them their boys are dead, but not how they died; and I won’t sign my real name to the letters, or give a return address. They don’t need to know that much.”

  “Oh! I get it.”

  “If you two want to get some rest, go ahead. Isom and I will clean those thieves’ weapons, and go through their saddlebags.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Lewis grunted. “I’m plumb tuckered out.”

  Sandy muttered his agreement. They spread their blankets in the shade of the trees, using their saddlebags for pillows, and settled down. In the warm summer weather, even this high up in the mountains, they’d be comfortable enough without needing heavier bedrolls.

  The dead men had been heavily armed. There were six revolvers, three repeating rifles, a Colt Model 1855 Sidehammer percussion-fired ten-gauge revolving shotgun, and the little Double Derringer, as well as several knives. Isom and Walt took the cleaning gear he’d bought from a store at the Divide, and set to work.

  Isom held up the revolving shotgun and shook his head. “These damn things are dangerous! They’ve got a bad habit of flashing over from one chamber to all the others, so that all five go off at once—what they call a chain fire. That can sure ruin a man’s day, ’specially if his hand or forearm is anywhere near the front of the cylinder when it happens.”

  “Yeah, I saw it happen a time or two in the War with the rifle version of that gun,” Walt agreed. “I recall one man who lost two fingers and part of his hand to that. Calling him ‘Stumpy’ was a sure way to start a fight.” Isom cackled with laughter.

  It took them over an hour to clean all the captured weapons, plus Isom’s shotgun. They returned the thieves’ guns to their pack saddle, which they’d removed along with the other tack to allow the horses to rest, then relaxed with more coffee.

  “You did well today,” Walt told him. “I reckon you’ve got what it takes to do a wagonmaster’s job. You’ll be bossing your own wagon train within a week or two.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do my best.”

  “You got any friends from your buffalo soldier days who are good, hard workers, handy with their guns, who know horses and mules and wagons, and are lookin’ for work? Reliable men, who you’d trust to guard your back if you had to?”

  “I can think of mebbe half a dozen who’d fit that bill, but some are still in uniform.”

  “Why don’t you write to them, and tell them about our outfit? If they want to join us, now or in future, and you vouch for them, I’ll hire them sight unseen.”

  Isom couldn’t help looking pleased at the implied compliment to his judgment of men. “I’ll do that. I’ll tell ’em you’re a good boss to work for, and if they want to settle down to steady work an’ good money, this is the place to do it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Walt was silent for a moment, then looked up. “I want to know more about that kid’s pa—the one who taught his sons to steal, and sent them out with a gang like that. Seems to me he might try again, and I’m going to have a lot of wagon trains passing between mining towns. I don’t want any more of my men to die like Will did.”

  “Makes sense. What d’you have in mind?”

  “I’m going to head up to Fairplay. If the address he gave me is right, his father’s place is a couple of miles outside the town. I want to ask questions, find out more about him—how many men he has, where they go and how often, what sort of work he does, that sort of thing.”

  “You’re not plannin’ to call him out?”

  “No, I reckon that wouldn’t be real wise. That’s his home ground. He’ll have friends there, but we don’t—at least, not yet. He may even have bribed the local law to back his play. I’ll find out what I can, then head back to Pueblo via Cañon City.”

  “Need company?”

  “Feel like a few days’ extra ride?”

  “Naw, but since you ask, I’ll come along.”

  Walt grinned. “Thanks. I’ll be glad of your company. We’ll head out at dawn, with a spare horse apiece. It’s about sixty miles away over mountain trails, so we’ll take two days for the journey. I’ll send the rest of the horses and gear back to Pueblo with Lewis and Sandy. The two of them should be able to handle that. They can use some of those thieves’ money to buy more supplies and hire an extra hand in Colorado City for the run to Pueblo, if need be.”

  “I reckon that ought to work.” Isom stretched. “I’m gonna get some shut-eye. Didn’t get much last night.”

  “I’ll stay up until evening, then wake everyone for supper. We’ll take it in turns to keep watch tonight. I don’t want to lose our horses again!”

  Walt led his horse through the double doors of the livery stable. “Anyone here?” he called as Isom followed him, leading his mount and the two spare horses.

  “Yassuh!” came a voice from the rear of the stable. An elderly black man came forward, walking stiffly. “C’n I help you, suh?”

  “I’m looking for a man named Gideon.”

  “Dat’s me, suh.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Walt Ames. Samson Moses told you about me when he passed through here, a year or so back.” Walt held out his hand.

  A beaming smile came to the man’s face. “Yassuh!” He pumped Walt’s hand enthusiastically. “Samson told me, if I learned anything you’d find useful, to send word to him, and you’d pay well. You sho’ did, suh.”

  “Yes. You brought us some important news, and I always pay for that sort of thing. Fact is, I’m looking for more information. That’s why I came in here. I also need stalls for our horses, and a good rubdown and a grain feed for them. They’ve been ridden hard these past few days.”

  “Sure t’ing, suh.” He indicated an empty row of stalls along the opposite wall. “A dollar a day per horse for all dat. Take any four stalls you like, an’ hang your saddles over dat frame dere. Does you need a place to stay?”

  “Yes, but Isom’s with me, so I want somewhere that’ll take blacks as well as whites.”

  Gideon frowned. “Ain’t noplace gonna do dat in de white part o’ town, suh. Tell you what, though: Rosalva’s Cantina is down in de Mex quarter. She’ll rent you two rooms an’ ask no questions, if you pays in good hard cash. Dey’s comfortable enough, but I gotta warn you, suh; keep your hand on your wallet all de time you’re in de barroom dere.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Is it safe to leave our saddles here?”

  “Yassuh, an’ you can lock your long guns in my storeroom, iffen you wants. I lives behind de stable, so I can get ’em for you anytime. What was you wantin’ to know, suh?”

  “There’s a man named Bart Furlong. He’s got at least two sons, one of them named Billy. Their place is some distance out of town. Heard of him?”

  Gideon stiffened. “Oh, yeah! He’s a bad man, suh—a bad, bad man, an’ mean with it. He got t’ree sons—Billy’s de youngest. De oldest is Brad, an’ den dere’s Ben. Dey’s all t’ree almost as bad as dere pappy. He raised dem dat way.”

  “What about their mother?”

  “I heard she died a long time back, suh, when de boys was chilluns.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “He breeds hosses an’ mules, suh. I’ll be danged if dey ain’t de most fertile critters I ever did hear of. Why, on only a section o’ land, one square mile, he raises t’ree, four hundred head every year. Dat’s how many he sells round here, anyways. He’s got a crew o’ real hard men to help him, too, a dozen or so. Dey often goes out for days, even a couple weeks at a time. I saw dem ride out a few days back, in t’ree groups. Guess dat means Mr. Furlong be on his own out dere right now. Usually, after dey gets back from a trip like dat, he got more hosses an’ mules for sale. Some of dem got old brands, but dey a
llus got a line burned t’rough dem an’ a new Furlong brand—dat’s Bar F—next to it.”

  “You reckon he’s stealing stock from all over, rebranding it, then selling it around here?”

  Gideon’s face showed real alarm. “Don’t say dat out loud where anyone can hear you, suh! Folks who talk ’bout him behind his back often get hurt real bad. As for de stock, dey all got bills o’ sale, but I don’t figure dey’d be much good outside dis county, if you knows what I means. ’Course, most of de animals nebber leave here anyway. Fairplay’s ’bout ten t’ousand feet up. De air’s real thin, an’ de winters get bitter cold. It be a hard, cruel place to work, for man or beast. Lots o’ hosses an’ mules get worked to death, haulin’ overloaded mine wagons or totin’ heavy pack saddles t’rough mud or t’ick snow. Folks allus need more of dem, an’ some don’t ask questions ’bout where dey come from.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Walt took out his wallet and peeled off four five-dollar bills. “That’s for the horses, two nights apiece. Look after them well. We may need them in a hurry. The rest is for all you’ve told me. Any idea where we could ask more questions about Furlong, without word getting back to him?”

  “Uh… suh, you betta be real careful. If he hears you’s askin’ ’bout him, he’s gonna come after you, to find out why.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Well… Rosalva’s got some gals workin’ for her. Dat Furlong, he used dem a few times. He got drunk one night an’ hurt one of dem bad. Rosalva won’t let him hire dem no more. She don’t bear him no love. Iffen she figgers she can trust you, an’ iffen you pays her enough, she might tell you more; but she gonna need time to take your measure fust. Don’t rush her.”

  “All right. Thanks, Gideon. We’ll head down there.”

  * * *

  “But who the hell were they? Why didn’t you get closer, so you could see ’em clearly?” The speaker’s voice trembled with barely contained fury.

  “How could I, Pa? I only saw ’em when I got to the top of the rise, an’ they saw me at the same time. They must’ve known who I was, because one of ’em lifted his rifle to aim at me.”

  “Prob’ly that damned brother o’ yourn told ’em you’d be comin’ along,” Bart Furlong fumed. “Billy can never keep his mouth shut when it matters.”

  “Could be. I jumped my hoss into the trees before they could get off a shot at me. I didn’t dare go back—there was at least four of ’em, an’ mebbe more I couldn’t see.”

  “Could they have been from that wagon train you robbed?”

  “I don’t see how, Pa. There’s only the one trail up from Colorado City, an’ we was on it the whole time. They couldn’t have passed us without us seein’ them.”

  “Mebbe not. I still can’t figure out how you could hit a train of wagons, each with a six-mule team, an’ came away with only seven hosses! You should have got much more’n that, an’ a bunch o’ mules as well. That would have been our best score in a year or more!”

  “But I told you, Pa—they was picketed! We figured they’d be standin’ there loose, ’cause they had a night herd watchin’ over them—the one we shot. I ain’t never heard of no wagon train usin’ picket ropes an’ guards at the same time—not round here, anyways.”

  “Waal… neither have I, comes to that. They musta been hit before, to be that careful.” His father paced restlessly back and forth. “After you saw they’d taken Billy an’ the other three, why didn’t you head for the Divide? The sheriff there’s the nearest law, so they’re bound to have handed the boys over to him for trial. You could have found out more from him.”

  “They was between me an’ there, Pa. There’s only one trail, like I said, so I couldn’t get past or around them. I figured I’d best head back here the long way around, to warn you they’d taken them.”

  “Yeah, but it took you the best part o’ four days to get here! I can’t understand why the boys ain’t wired me yet. Mebbe the line’s down again. If it is, I’ll send you to the Divide, to bail ’em out an’ find out what happened.”

  “Uh… Pa, I been on the trail for a week. My hoss is plumb tuckered out, an’ so am I.”

  “Too bad! All the others are out raidin’, just like you was. They ain’t back yet. I can’t go—I got to look after this place—so that leaves you. You can take one o’ the spare hosses.”

  The younger man opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it. His father was in no mood for argument.

  “I wanna know who the hell those men were,” Furlong continued. “Can’t be anyone from around here. They all know better ’n to cross me like that. Whoever those damn fools are, I’m gonna make ’em wish they’d kept their noses outta my business!” He grabbed his hat off a hook. “Come on, boy. We’re headin’ into town, to wire the Sheriff down there. I wanna know what’s been happenin’. I shoulda heard somethin’ from ’em by now, dammit!”

  * * *

  Walt looked around the cantina as he mopped up the last of the savory, spicy sauce on his plate with a piece of tortilla, and popped it into his mouth. The room wasn’t large. Its four tables, nearest to the door, were all occupied with eager diners. Other men stood at the bar, glasses of beer and tequila in front of them. Several young and not-so-young women circulated, bearing trays and glasses. A hubbub of conversation in Spanish filled the smoky air. He and Isom were the only non-Mexicans there.

  Walt chewed slowly, swallowed, then sighed with repletion. “Man, this is only the second day we’ve eaten here, but I already feel like I’m getting fat! If I could figure out how to hire Rosalva’s cook away from her, I swear I would. This is the best Mexican food I’ve tasted in years.”

  “It’s pretty good,” Isom mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Trouble is, Rosalva would probably shoot you if you tried.”

  “I certainly would, señor,” a woman’s voice said behind them. Walt looked up to see Rosalva standing there, a slight smile on her face. “I value my cook.”

  “Rosalva, you must have ears as sharp as an eagle’s eyes, to hear what we were saying over the noise in here!” Walt waved his hand around the cantina.

  “It is my business to hear things of interest to me, señor. However, if you want a good Mexican cook, I can find you one. You hire him for your house?”

  “I’m going to be setting up a horse ranch near Pueblo. I figure on buying breeding stock in Mexico, and hiring some of their mesteñeros to catch wild horses, then break and train them. I reckon they’ll prefer their own kind of food. The rest of us will, too, if it’s as good as yours.”

  “You sound like a man of importance, señor.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m just trying to build my business, that’s all. I did well in Denver, and now I’m investing the proceeds.”

  “You must have done well, to talk so freely about buying horses south of the border. Good breeding stock is expensive. So is hiring your own team of mesteñeros. Such skills don’t come cheap.”

  “I did all right.”

  “He owns a freight company, too,” Isom told her. “He’s a good man to work for.”

  “Indeed? Well, señor, when your horse ranch is ready, send word to me. I shall find a good cook for you—for a small fee, of course.”

  “I never mind paying for good service, or for other things I need. I can be real generous.”

  “Indeed? What else are you needing, señor?”

  “Information. I–”

  Walt was interrupted as the beaded curtain covering the front doorway was thrown aside, and a big, burly man stalked into the room. His gait was unsteady, as if he’d already had more than a few drinks and was feeling their effects. He was dark-haired, with a big, bushy beard. His grubby, stained checkered shirt was tucked into black trousers that fell to mud-stained boots. A revolver was holstered at his right side, balanced by a long-bladed knife on his left. He was followed by what looked like a younger version of himself, dressed and armed in the same style, also not very steady on his feet.

&n
bsp; “Furlong! Bastardo!” Rosalva muttered bitterly beneath her breath. She stepped away from Walt’s table to block the path of the new arrivals. The men at the bar looked around, then backed hurriedly away as the bartender lowered his hands out of sight behind it.

  Walt slid his chair back a little, and murmured to Isom, “Stand by for trouble. Don’t look at them.”

  “Got it.” Isom gently moved his chair back as well, to give himself room to move.

  The burly man stumbled forward, pushing his hat back off his head, to swing from its cord around his neck. Rosalva was forced to give ground ahead of him as he brushed past Walt’s table, even as she snapped, “I told you not to come back here, Señor Furlong!”

  “Aw, shaddup, Rosalva!” the man slurred, trying to focus his drink-sodden eyes on her. “I gotta wait here in town for a reply to a telegraph message, an’ I want someone to keep me warm ’till then. Here—I’ll pay.” He fumbled in his pocket.

  Rosalva exploded with rage. “You hurt my girl last time! She couldn’t work for two weeks! No more of them for you! You get out of here, and take your son with you!”

  “Is that right? Then maybe I’ll take you tonight instead!” Bart’s hand shot out and grabbed her right breast, squeezing. Rosalva’s eyes bugged out and she cried out in pain as she pulled back, trying to free herself.

  The bartender lifted his hands above the bar. He was holding a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun. He began to swing it into line, but Walt was faster. He surged upright behind Bart’s back as his right hand drew a revolver. He lifted it, then slammed down the barrel on the man’s head with vicious force. Bart collapsed as if he’d been pole-axed.

  Isom was right behind Walt. As the younger man staggered unsteadily, the teamster grabbed his shoulder with his hook, spun him around, and launched a left-handed haymaker that came around with all the weight of his body behind it. It landed on the side of the man’s jaw with an audible crunching sound. His victim flew sideways, crashing into the wall with an impact that shook the room. He hung there limply for a moment, then toppled forward to land face-down on the floor.