Rocky Mountain Retribution (The Ames Archives Book 2)

by Peter Grant

  “Thank you, señor,” Rosalva said, rubbing her breast absently, her eyes on the revolver in Walt’s hand. “You are very fast with that.”

  “I get by,” Walt said shortly, holstering the gun and looking round at Isom. “I heard something break—not your hand, I hope?”

  “Naw. I think it was his jaw.”

  Walt bent over and rolled the younger man onto his back. Sure enough, his jaw was bent sideways. “Yeah, you got him good. He won’t be eating steak for a while.”

  He straightened up and looked around. All the customers in the cantina were on their feet, eyes wide, staring in stunned silence at the scene. Walt said, “You don’t want trouble with this man when he wakes up. None of you were here tonight. You saw nothing, you heard nothing, you know nothing. Understand?”

  Everyone nodded solemnly.

  “Right. On your way.”

  The onlookers hurried out. Most stepped over or around the recumbent men, but a few trod on them, very deliberately. One spat in Bart Furlong’s face.

  Walt waited until all the customers had left, then looked at Rosalva. “I want them to remember as little as possible about this. Can you fix that?”

  She gazed at him expressionlessly. “I don’t know what you mean, señor.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had to deal with rowdy drunks before. Don’t tell me someone in your line of work doesn’t have knockout drops stashed behind the bar.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, I have.”

  “Then put a good dose of them in two glasses of tequila—not too much, mind; we don’t want to kill them—and make them drink it. Hold their noses until their mouths open, then pour it into them, bit by bit. Make sure they swallow it. That’ll knock them out for the rest of the night. Once they’ve drunk it, dump them down by the creek. It’s warm enough that they should be all right there overnight. They won’t remember much when they wake up in the morning—not through the hangover those knockout drops will give them. With luck, they’ll just assume they blacked out.”

  “I would rather dump them in the creek, señor—face down. It would be better if they don’t wake up at all.”

  Walt shook his head. “Too risky. Even if your customers don’t talk, someone may have seen them come in here. And the sheriff will investigate.”

  “I suppose you are right,” she sighed.

  “I am. This is Bart Furlong, right?” She nodded. “Which son?”

  “That one is Brad, his oldest.”

  “All right. I’ll remember their faces, even if he won’t know mine.”

  “What if he finds out who you are, later? He is a bad enemy.”

  “So am I, Rosalva. I can be the best friend you’ll ever have, or your worst nightmare. Take your pick.”

  “You know… I think I believe you, señor,” she murmured, staring at him intently.

  “Keep an eye on him. If he finds out who I am, or he’s fixing to try to get even with me, let me know. Send a letter or a rider if you have time; if you don’t, send a telegraph message saying that Pedro is coming down the mountain to see me. I’ll know what it means.”

  “I will do that, señor, and I will ask others to tell me if they hear anything.”

  Walt took out his notebook, scribbled a few lines, tore out the page, and handed it to Rosalva. “You can reach me there.” He took out his wallet, counted out fifty dollars, and laid the banknotes on the bar counter. The bartender’s eyes, and those of the four women waiting on tables, bugged out at the sight of the money, equivalent to the monthly earnings of two mine laborers. “This is to make up for the trade you lost tonight, and for your trouble. Keep me informed of anything I need to know, and there’ll be more where that came from.”

  She scooped up the money. “You are very generous, señor.” Her eyes and voice turned coy. “Will you come back tonight? We have reason to be grateful to you; and for a man who pays so well, many pleasures can be arranged—for his friend, too.” She glanced at Isom.

  He laughed. “No, ma’am, thank you, but we’ll head out. We’ve got work to do. Look after those two—and don’t hurt them any more than they are already. You don’t want them looking for evens with you.”

  “We will be careful, señor. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Rosalva. If you need anything shipped up from Pueblo, remember, my freight business will haul it for you at good rates.”

  “I will use your services, señor, and tell others about them. It will be a good way to get regular messages to you.”

  “Yes, it will.” Walt turned to Isom. “Come on, let’s get our gear and collect the horses.”

  As they hurried out, Isom half-whispered, so that Rosalva would not hear, “Work? What’re we gonna do now, boss?”

  Walt replied, equally quietly, “We’re going to pay a visit to Furlong’s place. I’ll teach him to steal my horses and kill my men!”

  * * *

  They pulled up at the hitching rail in front of a run-down, ramshackle farmhouse. No lights were visible through the windows. The bunkhouse to the right and the barn to the left also showed no signs of life.

  “This matches the address we got from Billy Furlong,” Walt whispered. “From what Gideon told us, I’d say there’s no-one here. They’re all out stealing horses somewhere.”

  “Yeah, or dead down near the Divide,” Isom replied, equally softly. “We’d best make sure, though. I’d hate to have someone creep up behind me with a knife or a gun.”

  “You and me both!”

  Drawing their revolvers, they checked all the buildings. There were several horses and mules in the barn, and a few more in the pasture, but no people.

  “All right,” Walt said at last. “Let’s take a look at the house.”

  They lit oil lamps that they found on the table in the front room, and walked through the building, wrinkling their noses at the smell of dirty bodies and unwashed clothing. Walt paused before a gun rack in a room used as an office. It held several weapons, including a .50-70 Remington Sporting Rifle like his own. It didn’t have a telescope sight, but a combination open and peep sight was mounted on the barrel ahead of the receiver. There were two double-barreled breech-loading ten-gauge shotguns, a Parker and a Whitney; three Winchester 1866’s, one a full-length rifle and the other two shorter, lighter carbines; a Henry rifle; a Spencer cavalry carbine; and a long, heavy .50-70 Springfield Model 1868 Trapdoor military rifle. Ammunition for all the weapons filled a shelf below the rifle rack.

  “We’ll take these with us,” Walt decided. “What you and I don’t want, I’ll add to our stock for our teamsters to use.”

  Isom looked doubtful. “How’re we gonna carry them all?”

  “We saw a pack saddle in the barn when we checked it. We’ll borrow one of Bart’s horses to carry it. We can hand it over to the county sheriff as a stray after we get to Pueblo.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll get blankets to wrap the rifles, and a couple of boxes or sacks for the ammunition.”

  Walt went around behind the desk and tugged at the drawers, only to find them locked. He retrieved an axe from the barn, and chopped the locks out of all the drawers. He whistled in surprise at the contents of one of them.

  “Isom, look at this!” He pulled it all the way out and laid it on the desk.

  The teamster came over, and in his astonishment almost dropped the rifle he was carrying. Three fat sheaves of banknotes and a paper roll of gold double eagle coins lay exposed to view. “Why would he leave so much money just layin’ around like that? Weren’t he scared someone might steal it?”

  “I guess he figured being known as a bad man would scare off thieves. There looks to be almost three thousand dollars in notes alone. I’m going to send it to Will’s mother. It’s more than he’d have earned in seven or eight years. It should make her life a lot more comfortable.”

  “Sounds more’n fair to me, boss.”

  Walt dropped the money into a canvas bank bag that was lying empty in the bottom of the drawer, then turned his attention
to a small iron-reinforced chest bolted to the floor behind the desk. It was padlocked, but a few heavy blows with the axe soon took care of that. He lifted the lid. It was filled with envelopes, letters and other documents, some of them official-looking.

  “I’ve no time to go through this now, but it might be important,” he told Isom. “I’ll put all these papers in a sack, along with those in the desk. We’ll take them with us.”

  Isom strapped the pack saddle onto the strongest-looking horse in the barn, then loaded everything they’d selected, plus the best of the food in the kitchen. When he’d finished, he looked up at the clouds, then cut a square from a canvas wagon cover in the barn, and tied it over the load to keep it dry. While he did that, Walt took a big can of lamp oil from the kitchen and walked through the house, sprinkling it on clothing, bedding and furniture.

  At last they were ready. “It’s about midnight,” Walt said with a grin. “D’you want a fire to keep you warm?”

  “Y’know, boss, I was just startin’ to feel a mite chilled!”

  Chuckling, they struck matches and threw them into the kerosene-splashed rooms of the house. As they swung into their saddles, flames were licking over the furniture and up the walls.

  “That ought to do it,” Walt decided.

  “You don’t reckon the bunkhouse or the barn will catch, boss? There’s hosses in there.”

  “No, they’re far enough away to be safe. Besides, it’s starting to rain.” He held out his hand, feeling drops spatter on it as they looked up at the lowering clouds. “That’ll keep the sparks from setting anything else alight. It’s three days’ long, hard ride from here to Pueblo—maybe four, if this rain sets in. Come on, let’s put our oilskin jackets on, then get started!”

  * * *

  The doctor came into the reception room, wiping his hands on a towel. “I’ve finished, Mr. Furlong. Your son will wake up in a few minutes, but the ether will take up to an hour to wear off completely. Until then, he won’t be able to keep his balance. He’ll be in a lot of pain for some time. I’ll give you some laudanum for that, but use it sparingly—it’s very addictive.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Bart mumbled, rubbing his aching head. “How much?”

  “That’ll be twenty dollars to wire his jaw, and for the laudanum.”

  Bart dragged a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off four five-dollar notes. “There you are. Will laudanum help a real bad headache?”

  “Laudanum won’t cure a hangover—in fact, I don’t know any medicine that will. You’ll just have to let it run its course, I’m afraid.”

  “Dammit! I’m goin’ down to the saloon for a hair of the dog. Maybe that’ll help. Keep Brad here ’til I get back.” He yanked open the door and strode out.

  “As you wish, Mr. Furlong,” the doctor said with a long-suffering sigh as the door banged closed.

  Bart stumped down the board sidewalk, skull throbbing, stomach churning, holding his head down against the light, pattering raindrops. His clothes were already wet after he’d lain outside the whole night, making him feel even more miserable. “What the hell did I have t’ drink yestiddy?” he muttered to himself. “Ain’t never felt this bad afore, not even after a whole bottle o’ rotgut! Musta banged my head on somethin’, too—it’s bruised on top.”

  As he approached the marshal’s office, a town deputy stepped out, holding a telegraph form. He saw Bart, and called, “Mr. Furlong, there’s a message for you.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid it’s real bad news. D’you want to read it inside?”

  “Give it t’ me, damn you!” Bart snarled impatiently, snatching it from the deputy’s hands.

  He unfolded it, read, and goggled, gasping at the shock of the news. It cut through the pain in his head, seeming to transmute it into a soul-deep agony of spirit. His eyes scrolled unbelievingly over the message a second, then a third time. At last he let his hand fall to his side, raised his eyes to the dripping clouds, and howled aloud like an animal in torment.

  “I– I’m sorry, Mr. Furlong,” the deputy began.

  Bart shook his head, his eyes screwed shut as if to blot out the words he had just read. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry!” he roared, ignoring all those nearby who’d stopped dead in their tracks to stare at him. “Get down to the Divide and find out who killed my son!”

  “I– I can’t do that, Mr. Furlong. That’s way outside our bailiwick. We’re town marshals. We only have police powers in Fairplay.”

  “Then you’re no damned use to me!” Bart screamed. “I’m gonna find out who did this! I’m gonna rip the liver out of his livin’ body! I’m gonna cut it up, an’ fry it, an’ make him eat it afore he dies! I’m gonna find his wife an’ children an’ treat them the same way! I’m–”

  The deputy straightened, his eyes narrowing. “You’d best be quiet, Mr. Furlong,” he hissed warningly. “I know you got an arrangement with us, an’ I know you just had bad news, but if you say things like that, in front of so many witnesses, the law’s got to take notice.”

  “Why didn’t the law take notice o’ my boy an’ my men before someone hanged ’em?” Bart yelled.

  “I–”

  They were interrupted by a horseman galloping into town, his horse lathered in sweat and foam and gasping for breath. He pounded up the street and stopped in front of them, swinging down from the saddle, panting after his exertions. “Bart! Thank God you’re alive!” he gasped.

  Bart recognized his neighbor. “What’s wrong, Willis?” he demanded.

  “It’s your house. It burned to the ground last night.”

  “What?” Furlong screamed, afflicted beyond endurance, clutching his skull as its throbbing returned, redoubled.

  “We were afraid you might’ve been inside. I came to get the county sheriff, so he could take a look.”

  “What about the barn an’ the bunkhouse?”

  “They’re all right—they didn’t burn.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I dunno that anyone did. None of us saw or heard anythin’. You prob’ly left a candle or lamp burnin’ when you went out.”

  “To hell with that! It was still light when we left. We had no need for candles, or lamps, either. Someone set that fire! They musta left tracks we can follow!”

  “I– I guess not, Bart. So many horses, mules an’ wagons use the main trail that you couldn’t pick out one set o’ tracks, even if you tried. Even if you could, it started rainin’ around midnight. It’s been comin’ down steady ever since, so any fresh tracks will be long gone.”

  “Damn the lousy luck! Go get the county sheriff, an’ tell him t’ meet me out there!”

  “I– all right.” The man climbed wearily back into the saddle, and turned his horse’s head up the road.

  Bart turned back to the town deputy. “Brad’s in the doctor’s office with a busted jaw. I gotta go out to the ranch to see what the hell’s goin’ on there. Tell the doctor I said to get Brad a room at the hotel, then keep an eye on him. I dunno if someone’s gunnin’ for us, so you guard him well, you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Mr. Furlong.”

  “Soon as the sheriff an’ I have checked out the ranch, I’ll be back. I got messages to send.” He waved the telegraph form. “When the rest o’ my crew gets back, we’re goin’ huntin’. Whoever killed my boy, an’ whoever burned down my place, had best say their prayers while they still can!”

  Walt looked up from his roll-top desk against the wall as Isom tapped at the office door. “Got a minute, boss?”

  “Sure, what is it?” He put down his pen, and turned his chair to face into the room. “Take a seat.”

  “Thank you, suh.” Isom sank into one of the visitor’s chairs. “You was right. That short Winchester saddle ring carbine we took from Furlong’s place is lighter an’ handier than the full-length rifle. I reckon I can manage it. I just got to figure out how to mount a ring under that thin fore-end, to take the point o’ my hook. With that, it should balance fine at my shoulder.”


  “You could ask Shep to make you a new, deeper fore-end, with thicker wood underneath. He’s always whittling or carving while sitting on his wagon seat. Give him the old fore-end for a pattern, and a piece of good hardwood the right size. The thicker wood will take screws more easily, to mount a ring.”

  Isom nodded. “I’ve seen him at work, suh. I’ll ask him.”

  “Once you’ve learned to shoot it from your left shoulder, I reckon you’ll be able to get reliable hits out to a hundred yards, maybe a bit more. The carbine’s short, light barrel isn’t as accurate as the full-length rifle, but that’s still about three times further than you can reach with your shotgun.”

  “Yes, suh. It don’t hit as hard as a shotgun, either, but it holds more cartridges. I reckon that might come in real handy if we run into more stock thieves. While Shep’s makin’ a new fore-end, I’m gonna stone the workin’ parts real smooth where they rub together, to lighten the action. If I pull on the ring with my hook, to keep the butt tight into my shoulder, I should be able to work the lever without havin’ to lower the gun. That’ll give me a dozen rounds afore I need to reload.”

  “I reckon so. You all set for your first run as wagonmaster?”

  “Yes, suh. We’ll head out for Cañon City as soon as they finish loadin’ the last wagon.”

  “All right. I don’t need to wish you good luck. I know you’ll do fine.”

  “Thank you, suh. I also wanted to tell you: I wrote to my friends, like you asked me. Several of them ain’t in uniform no more, an’ I think they’d like steady, well-paid work. I reckon you might have some of them come here to talk to you over the next few weeks.”

  “Good. I’ll look forward to it.”

  * * *

  “Damn the stinkin’ bastard to hell, whoever he was!” Bart muttered morosely, nursing the glass of whisky on the saloon table before him.