by Peter Grant
“Damn, damn, DAMN!” Parsons raged. That lawyer had been charged with registering some New Mexico properties in the name of a bearer share corporation formed in that Territory, working through another lawyer in Santa Fe, so as to keep the transaction at arms’ length and completely anonymous. The documents had included the new company’s registration, its bearer share certificates, and the title deeds to the properties. They comprised almost 1,500 acres, in three irregularly-shaped parcels of land, to the east of Glorieta Pass near Santa Fe. At present, it had little value, so he’d been able to buy it cheaply. However, he’d received advance information that a new transcontinental railroad line was to be built through New Mexico. His land stretched out along its easiest access route to the Pass, through which it would have to travel to reach Santa Fe. Unless it wanted to spend a lot more on construction, building its line a longer distance across less suitable terrain, the railroad would have to buy his property. That would make it worth many times more than he’d paid for it… but was it still his? Had it, too, been stolen, and re-registered to another anonymous company?
Cursing vehemently, he wheeled his horse and galloped back towards town. He’d have to send more messages right away, to find out what had been happening in New Mexico. He dreaded what they might reveal.
* * *
Two evenings later, Parsons sat in his study, oil lamps burning on either side of the desk. He held his head in his hands, staring down at the grain of the wood as if mesmerized by it, mind churning.
Whoever had done this… presumably Ames… had left him almost nowhere to turn. The properties were as good as lost. He could mount a legal challenge through the courts, but the fact that he’d used bearer share companies was his biggest obstacle. Physical possession of their share certificates constituted ownership, as far as the law was concerned. He could sue Ames, claiming that he’d stolen them; but to do so, he’d have to admit that he had owned the shares first. That would destroy his carefully-crafted anonymity. It would also open to inquiry how he’d acquired, and paid for, the properties he’d registered in the name of those companies. Slowly he shook his head. He dared not let that information get out.
He’d employed a small team of strong-arm men. They’d visited homesteads, farms and small ranches along the Wet Mountains in southern Fremont County. Their owners had been given a simple choice; sell to him, at a price very much in his favor, or see their homes destroyed, their stock slaughtered, and their crops burned. It had only taken two or three examples before the rest had gotten the message. His efforts had been aided by the isolation of the area, which was not yet heavily settled, with no local law to speak of.
Over almost three years, he’d accumulated carefully selected properties until he owned a ten-mile stretch along the foothills. Even better, it controlled access to a narrow cleft that was the only way to reach a very large, long, fertile clearing, higher up in the hills. He now owned both the cleft and the clearing, a thousand acres of good grazing and hunting land, well-timbered around its margins. Animals kept there would not stray or be easily stolen. It offered good summer grass; had streams that could be dammed, then piped to lower levels; and because it could only be reached through his property, no-one else could get to it. It would be a perfect hidden base for any activities he didn’t want people to know about. It was like a gift, the cherry on top of his acquisitions.
As for the New Mexico land, Morley had been in Santa Fe a year ago, taking care of other business for him. He’d overheard a drunken discussion one night between two surveyors. He’d told his boss about it, so Parsons had paid for a discreet investigation of land records. A few offers to the locals, in gold dollars, for patches of hardscrabble land that had never been much use to them, and he’d been set fair to cash in at the railroad’s expense in due course… until last week.
He glanced at a column of figures he’d scribbled earlier that evening, trying to work out how much this fiasco had cost him. He’d paid a total of about fifteen thousand dollars for all the Fremont County property. It was bad enough to lose that much; but the land’s value at current prices was considerably higher, so his effective loss was much greater. The New Mexico land had cost him another three thousand dollars in gold. Wages for his strong-arm team had set him back another few thousand; then there were bribes, fees, and legal, travel and other costs… he’d probably spent close to thirty thousand dollars in all. That was almost a quarter of the loot he’d made from his far-flung scheme—and it might as well have vanished into thin air!
He sat back, thinking hard. He had a little over three times that much invested in land elsewhere, or in bank accounts. He dared not do anything that might expose or endanger it. What’s more, there might be a way to recover what he’d lost. He didn’t know what Ames wanted, but he didn’t have the reputation of being a thief. Was he, instead, acquiring leverage that he could use to obtain compensation for his dead employee, or for the trouble Furlong and his men had caused him? That was possible… and provided the cost wasn’t excessive, Parsons would be more than willing to make a deal. He was nothing if not pragmatic.
One thing was certain, though. Ames and his freight line were now sacrosanct, untouchable, until this matter had been resolved and he’d got back all he could. If anything happened to Ames while he owned his new bearer share companies, they and their assets would form part of his estate, and be divided among his heirs. He’d never recover anything from that process. No, action against Ames was out of the question for the time being.
* * *
Almost a hundred miles to the east, Walt was sitting at his own desk, looking with satisfaction at several bearer share certificates, lawyers’ letters, and official documents.
Well, I’m now the proud… not owner, really; caretaker, I suppose… of a big property in Fremont County, and some patches of dirt in New Mexico, he thought to himself. I wonder whether Parsons has found out about it yet? If he has, I bet he peed vinegar! If he has any sense, he’ll try to make a deal with me, rather than a fuss; but he doesn’t know I’m not in the mood for deals.
He picked up another letter and re-read it. Will’s mother had written to thank him profusely for sending her three thousand dollars. He hadn’t told her where it came from, of course. She’d bought a large house in Denver with half the money, and was setting it up as a boarding house. The balance, plus what she’d earn from her lodgers, would support her.
He smiled to himself. The paper money he’d found in the farmhouse had taken care of her needs. He’d applied Furlong’s roll of double eagles—five hundred dollars in gold—plus what he’d taken from the thieves he’d hanged, as well as some of his own money, to buying a spacious freight yard site in what would soon be South Pueblo, the new town into which General Palmer planned to bring his railroad. He’d paid a surveyor to give him a sneak preview of the plans, and selected his site accordingly. It would be close to the station, and well positioned to get to the major roads running out of town.
On the spur of the moment, he decided he’d drive over there tomorrow with Rose. They’d look around to see where they’d like to build their town house. He already had a nice hillside in mind. He wanted a plot with room for a spacious building, plus a paddock, stable and carriage house, and a servants’ cottage behind it. In due course, they’d commute for a few weeks at a time between their horse ranch and Pueblo, to look after both their businesses.
“Are you coming to bed, dear?” he heard her call from the bedroom.
“I’m coming,” he replied, pushing back his chair with warm anticipation. They might have been married for over seven years, but he’d never lost his enjoyment and excitement at sharing Rose’s bed. She was still a fine figure of a woman, even though she was almost a decade older than he. He’d never regretted his sudden, impetuous proposal to her in St. Louis.
He blew out the lamps in the study, and headed for the bedroom.
Parsons closed the door, then turned to look at the four men sitting around and on the bed. Th
e hotel in Salida had seemed the best place to meet. There were no servants like Liza who might interrupt or overhear anything; there were rooms for everybody; and those who wanted entertainment in the evenings could find it, to the extent that a small town provided it.
“I’ve got bad news,” he began. “I know we were going to talk over our situation today, and figure out what to do, but we’ve run out of time. I got a letter yesterday telling me that Ames—damn his hide!—has handed in a lot of papers he found in Furlong’s house. What’s worse, he gave them to an investigator who’s good at his job. He works a lot with Wells Fargo’s detective agency in Denver. If they trust him, that says a lot about him—and none of it’s good for us.”
“Works with Wells Fargo? D’you mean Dunnett, the Colorado Ranger?” Shelton asked.
“That’s the one.”
Morley swore. “Some of them can be bribed, but not him. I swear, some o’ those damn Rangers think they’re too good for dishonest money!” They all chuckled sourly. “What’s in the papers?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll ask my contacts to find out, and see whether they can get their pet politicians to squash the investigation. Furlong was supposed to burn every letter or message he received as soon as he’d acted on it, but it looks like he filed them away—I suppose in case he ever had to cut a deal with the law. He probably figured that if he gave them a lot of evidence against me, they’d go easier on him.” The others nodded. They were under no illusions about the general lack of honor among thieves, despite the proverb to the contrary. “He also had some letters meant for me, that hadn’t been collected yet.”
“Do you want us to deal with him?” Travis asked.
“Not right away. Thanks to this investigation, we’re going to have to silence all four leaders of the gangs we used to steal stock. We’ve got to move fast. We daren’t allow any of them to talk about how we’ve operated. Their men don’t know much, so they aren’t a problem. They’re just common-as-dirt hired guns. Furlong’s already shaken up over losing his son, and he didn’t want to move to La Junta. He doesn’t like it out there, far from the mining settlements he’s used to. Let’s give him a little time to settle down and relax. While he’s doing that, I want you to work in pairs to deal with Muldoon and Wadsworth. Tell them I said they should pay off their hired hands, then come back here with you, to be set up in a new territory, like Furlong. Kill them on the way here, and make sure their bodies will never be found.
“After you’ve taken care of them, the four of you can deal with Sanchez. He’s got two brothers working with him, and they’re all good with their guns, so he’ll be a harder nut to crack. Handle them in the same way. I reckon Furlong’s far enough away from everyone else that he won’t hear anything until it’s too late—and even if he does, he doesn’t know they also work for me. Once all of them are dead, you can ride out to La Junta and deal with him.”
“Got it, boss,” Travis said briskly, and the others grunted their agreement. “What about Ames?”
Parsons thought fast. He couldn’t tell them the real reason why Ames could not be targeted. “That’s going to be a lot more difficult. I need to know whether he has any more information, and make sure it won’t bounce back on us if we kill him. We’ll have to ask Furlong what he had in his strongbox.”
“And if he doesn’t want to tell us?”
“Then we’ll just have to persuade him, won’t we?” Hard laughter. “Also, don’t forget that Ames is talking to the Colorado Rangers. If anything happens to him, they’re going to ask questions. I’d prefer to keep them as far away from us as possible.” Fervent nods of agreement. “I reckon we’ve got to leave Ames alone for at least a few months, until we’ve tied off all the other loose ends, and we know more about what he’s been doing.”
All four men muttered and nodded their understanding and agreement.
“All right.” Parsons reached into his jacket pocket and took out four fat envelopes. “I drew out money so you can pay off the hired gunmen, and for traveling expenses. Here’s two thousand dollars apiece. That should see you through until you get back, with some to spare. Take your wages out of it while you’re gone; and if you take anything from the gang leaders, keep that as a bonus.” The four grinned appreciatively.
They walked down to the livery stable together to collect their horses. As they saddled them and led them out of their stalls, Morley asked, “Boss, are you sure Furlong won’t try to get a piece of that freighter himself?”
Parsons shook his head. “He doesn’t know Ames hanged his son and the other three men, and burned down his place. I didn’t tell him. I want him sitting quietly out in La Junta, not heading for Pueblo to get his revenge. That’s got to wait until we’re good and ready.”
Swinging into their saddles, they exchanged goodbyes and set out. Morley and Drake headed north for Fort Collins to deal with Muldoon, while Travis and Shelton turned south towards Alamosa to take care of Wadsworth. The four would then rendezvous at Trinidad, where Sanchez ran his gang.
Parsons watched them go, then turned his horse and headed for his farm. As he rode away, a black stable hand climbed down the ladder from the hayloft. He looked after the retreating horseman, then hurried down the street to a small eating house. Looking in through the open door, he saw a Mexican woman wiping a table, and picking up a newly-used plate and mug to take them back to the kitchen. He waited until she looked up, then jerked his head meaningfully towards the back door.
Walking around the building, he waited next to the outhouse for the woman to emerge, then motioned her over. “Clementina, five men jus’ rode out,” he said excitedly, looking around to make sure they were alone, and told her what he’d overheard from the hayloft.
The waitress’s eyes gleamed. “That’s two of the names Rosalva asked me to listen out for—Furlong and Ames! You did well, Malachi. You can eat here free for the next week. Just come to the back door at lunchtime, an’ I’ll bring you out a plate of food.”
“Thanks, Clementina. I gotta get back, or de boss will get mad.”
“Yes, and I’ve got to wash up, then write a letter to Rosalva.”
About a minute after they’d gone their separate ways, the door to the outhouse slowly opened. A man stuck his head out, looking around warily, then emerged, adjusting his clothing and the holstered gun at his side.
“Man, oh, man…” he whispered to himself as he glanced around. “The things you hear when you’re crappin’! It sure was my lucky day when I stopped here to eat!”
He hurried around to the front of the building, where his dun horse was hitched. As he trotted it down the street towards the general store, he talked quietly, idly, to the animal, as a lot of horsemen did after too many long rides with no other company. “Hoss, I was mad when Bart paid us off up at Fairplay, but now it looks like that was a lucky break. We can wait a bit longer to see if Jake has a job for us. This is worth six month’s pay, all at once!”
He stopped at the store to buy jerky and a few other essential supplies, refilled his canteen at the pump while the horse drank its fill, then rode out of town, turning southeast on the trail towards Cañon City. As he rode, he mused aloud, “Bart said he’d pay a hundred dollars to anyone who could tell him who killed Billy an’ them other three, an’ another hundred to find out who burned down his place. Well, it sure sounds like that darky knew. Wonder who those men were that he overheard? Don’t matter, I guess. Pueblo’s on the road to La Junta from here, so I’ll see if that freighter, Ames, is there. If he is, I’ll tell Bart. Come on, hoss! We got four long days’ ride ahead. There’s two hundred dollars waitin’ in La Junta, an’ my name’s on every bill!”
* * *
Walt was at his desk in the freight yard that same afternoon when Isom tapped at the door. “Got a minute, boss?”
“Sure, come in.”
Isom entered, followed by two men wearing a mixture of old Cavalry uniform and civilian clothes, still showing the dust of a long ride. “This here’s Co
rporal Jacob Jones an’ Corporal Sam Davis, boss—or, rather, they used to be corporals. They served in the 9th Cavalry with me. They’re two of the men I wrote to.”
Walt rose, and shook hands with the new arrivals. “I’m glad you’ve come. Isom said you were good, hard workers, and trustworthy with it.”
“Well, y’ can’t believe everythin’ a sergeant says, suh,” Sam said with a grin. “They’s allus out t’ get us poor corp’rals!” Everyone chuckled.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Walt said mock-judiciously. “I was a sergeant too, you know, and I never gave my corporals more of a hard time than they deserved.”
“That’s the problem, right there, suh,” Jacob retorted. “What sergeants think we deserves, an’ what we thinks we deserves, ain’t nowise the same thing!” More laughter.
“Can you both read, write and figure?” Walt asked.
“Yes, suh,” Sam said. “We both took the classes the Army offered for folks like us. They was real useful.”
“My wife and Samson’s—he’s part owner of this business, and my yard manager—will be setting up a school for adults here. If you want to learn more, you should talk to them.”
“We will, suh.”
“I know you’re used to firearms, and you’ve probably seen your share of fights with Indians. We’re having some trouble with stock thieves at present, so you may find yourselves needing to use your guns.”
Jacob nodded. “That won’t faze us none, suh. We ain’t real good with handguns.” He tapped his Army Colt, which he carried butt-forward at his right side in a military holster with its flap cut off. Sam carried a similar weapon in the same manner. “The Army uses rifles more.” He pointed to the Springfield Model 1868 rifle in the wall rack, part of the loot from Bart Furlong’s house. “I’ve used one o’ those, an’ a Sharps carbine, an’ a Spencer repeater a few times.”
