Rocky Mountain Retribution (The Ames Archives Book 2)

by Peter Grant

  His contact was waiting outside his house on the outskirts of the town. He hastened forward as Parsons rode up, drooping in the saddle with weariness. “Mr. Parsons, sir! I got your message. Here, let me help you down.”

  Parsons was grateful for his assistance, as his legs seemed to have turned to jelly. He staggered drunkenly, trying to find his balance, and handed the reins to the man. “What have you got for me, Smith?”

  “First off, sir, there’s no good gunmen to be had here right now. The Bellamy brothers were in town last week, but they rode out on Monday. The others are just trash, cheap guns who aren’t good enough to justify the wages they want. There’s not much in Pueblo to attract better ones, you understand.”

  “I guess not,” Parsons admitted.

  “I got you two horses, the best I could at short notice with the money I had on hand. It– it took all my savings. They’re not great, but they’re not too bad, either. They’re in the barn.”

  “Let’s see them.”

  The two horses, both geldings, were acceptable; not as good as those he’d bought in Cañon City, but fresh and strong. Parsons dug out his wallet and refunded Smith what he’d paid for them, plus a little extra.

  “Take my saddle off the black, and hang it over a stall partition to dry. It’s soaked in horse sweat, and in mine.”

  “Sure, Mr. Parsons.”

  He slid the rifle from its boot, and picked up his saddlebags. “I’ll put these inside, and use your outhouse; then I need a long, hot bath. Where’s the nearest bath-house? Can you drive me there in your buckboard?” He nodded at the light wagon outside the barn.

  “There’s a place not too far away. Let me harness my horse.”

  Parsons soaked for half an hour in a tub of steaming hot water, groaning in mingled pain and pleasure as the stiffness worked its way out of his muscles. He washed off the dirt and sweat of the long journey, then dressed in clean clothing, throwing away the filthy outfit he’d worn for a hundred hard-pounding miles. He had Smith drive him to a general store, where he purchased more clothes—good, hard-wearing duds, more suitable for the trail than his usual town garb—as well as blankets, a tarpaulin and an oilskin jacket. He added ammunition, camping gear, and food. If he had to run for it—a distinct possibility, if things went wrong—he’d need to be prepared.

  “How will you carry all that, Mr. Parsons?” Smith asked.

  “Have you got a pack saddle I can put on my second horse?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I’ll buy one, and a thick pad for it, and fresh saddle blankets for both horses. My old one is soaked with sweat.”

  They loaded everything into the buckboard. Climbing aboard, Parsons said, “On the way back, go past Ames Transport. I want to look at their yard.”

  “Sure, sir.”

  Most of the workers had already left the yard by the time the two men reached it. The sun was low on the horizon, appearing as an orange-red ball through the haze of dust.

  “Drive past slowly, without stopping,” Parsons instructed. He peered intently at the buildings under the brim of his hat, trying not to look too interested in them. Two men, one white, one black, were patrolling on either side of the yard, carrying long guns. They glanced at the buckboard incuriously, but didn’t let it distract them from scanning the vicinity, looking for anything out of place.

  “Any idea where Ames lives?” he asked.

  “Half a mile down this street, boss. I made sure to find out, after you told me to watch him.”

  “Good. Drive past his house.”

  Smith indicated a small, neat cottage as they came up to it. “He rents that house, Mr. Parsons.” It appeared to have three or four rooms, with part of a servant’s lean-to shack visible against the rear wall. The grounds were neatly kept, but nothing special. Parsons was surprised that someone with Ames’ money would live in a place like that; but then he recalled he’d only recently moved here. This would be temporary, until he could build or buy something more in keeping with his financial standing.

  “I’m famished,” he observed. “Where can we eat?”

  “There’s a decent place a few blocks away.”

  “Let’s go there.”

  Smith pulled up the buckboard on the street outside a glass-fronted café. “Here it is.”

  Parsons glanced idly through the window. “Looks good. Let’s– oh, hell! Drive on. Drive on!”

  “Wha–”

  “Do as I say, damn you!” He hissed rather than yelled the words, pulling the brim of his hat low over his eyes and looking away. Bart Furlong and three more men were inside, wolfing down heaping plates of food. If they looked up and recognized him, there’d be hell to pay.

  “A-anything you say, Mr. Parsons.”

  He waited on tenterhooks until they were clear of the building, then sighed with relief. “Sorry about that, Smith. There were people in there who might have recognized me.” He took another deep breath, feeling his heart pounding. “I’m still hungry. Anywhere else we can eat?”

  “Yes, there’s a couple of places further up.”

  “Nothing on this road, in case they ride past.”

  Smith drove to a cantina in the Mexican quarter, where they filled their stomachs with food that was over-spiced for Parson’s palate, but a lot better than nothing. He paid, then they headed back to Smith’s home, where he demanded strong black coffee, bitter and concentrated, to help him stay awake. He dared not risk a couple of hours’ sleep, because he was so tired, he was sure Smith would never be able to rouse him. Instead, he fitted his new pack saddle to one of the horses, then loaded it with everything he’d bought. He made up the blankets and tarpaulin into a fat bedroll.

  He went into Smith’s house, borrowed paper and pencil, and wrote out three innocuous-seeming telegraph messages on the kitchen table. One would go to Fort Collins, one to Alamosa, and one to Trinidad. His men would check for them when they got there, and again before they left, so his messages should reach them sooner or later. They’d immediately try to contact him in Salida by telegraph. If he didn’t reply within a day or two, using carefully selected phrases, they’d know what to do. Plans had been made long ago in case of this sort of trouble.

  He handed the messages to Smith, then reached for his saddlebags. “I need you to send those messages first thing tomorrow morning. Here’s two hundred dollars. That’s to pay for them, plus your wages and keep for the next few months, in case I’m not able to send it the usual way. I may be traveling a lot.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Parsons.”

  “Hold your reports to me for a few days. If I wire you from Salida within a week, carry on sending them there. If I don’t, use this new address.” He scribbled it on another piece of paper. “That’s in case I don’t go back to Salida.”

  “Got it.”

  “Now, listen carefully. There’s likely to be some excitement in town tonight—gun trouble. It may involve Walter Ames. I need you to watch him even more carefully than you have been doing. Let me know anything and everything you can. Unless I tell you to stop, keep that up right through the winter. It may be some time before I can send you more instructions, but I trust you to carry on as you’ve been doing.”

  “I’ll do it, Mr. Parsons. Ah… can I ask what’s going on?”

  “In this case, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.” And no-one will be able to make you talk about it, he added mentally—but he couldn’t tell Smith that.

  He couldn’t take his exhausted horses with him, so he decided to make a virtue out of necessity. “You’ve done well tonight, and I’m grateful. As a bonus for your help, the horses I rode in on are yours. Let them recover from the journey, then you can sell them, and keep the money. Here’s the bill of sale for them.” He wrote on it swiftly, endorsing it over to Smith and signing it. “They’re much better than the average horse. They should fetch several hundred dollars.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mr. Parsons!”

  He glanced at the clock on the kitchen man
tle. “It’s nine o’clock. I must go.”

  Smith walked with him to the barn, helped him put his saddle on the other fresh horse, then stood back and watched him mount. Parsons swore under his breath as his creaking, aching muscles and sore buttocks protested at being on horseback once more.

  He slid his Winchester into the rifle boot and gathered the reins. “Thanks again, Smith. I’ll be in touch sooner or later.”

  “All right, Mr. Parsons. Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.”

  The streets were almost empty, and in some houses, the lights were already out. Hard-working people couldn’t afford to waste the night hours in idle chatter. They had to store up their energy for the day ahead. He grinned wryly. Furlong would undoubtedly be counting on the same thing. He probably wouldn’t strike until an hour or two later, when he could be reasonably sure there’d be no witnesses outdoors.

  There’s just one little problem with your plan, Furlong, he thought viciously to himself, letting the pain of his weary, over-extended body fuel his anger. I’ll be outdoors… and I’ll be waiting for you with my rifle. I’ll teach you to disobey my orders!

  * * *

  As Parsons was leaving the stable, four riders walked their horses slowly down the street past Walt’s home. Rin whispered, “That’s the place.”

  “You said there was no servant?” Furlong muttered.

  “None that I saw, an’ there was no light in the servant’s room out back.”

  “That helps. Is there a lane runnin’ behind those houses?”

  “Yeah, behind that hedge. It’s narrow, though.”

  “It’ll do. We can leave our hosses there when we come back, out of sight. We’ll break the back door lock quick an’ clean, then get inside an’ close the door behind us. Ames’ll be wakin’ up from sleep. He won’t be thinkin’ straight for a few moments. That’ll give us time to get the drop on him. When he sees our guns pointed at his wife, he won’t dare try nothin’.”

  “When are we goin’ to move in, boss?” Rin asked.

  “Not for an hour or two. Look, their lights are still on. Let’s go find a saloon. I need a drink. We’ll come back about eleven.”

  They walked their horses on down the road, merging into the darkness.

  * * *

  Jacob lifted his head drowsily from the comfortable pillow in the servant’s room. What had roused him? He listened carefully. Only the silence of the night… then the light clink and jingle of steel on steel came again.

  Cat-like, he rolled out of bed and peered through the small window towards the back lane. Indistinct shapes moved there. He heard a faint whicker. Hosses, he thought to himself. There were at least three, with more off to the right behind a hedge. Bridle irons or spurs had probably made the noise he’d heard.

  Four men moved towards the rear gate, guns in their hands. That’s trouble, or I’ve never seen any, he thought, grabbing the Spencer carbine from where it leaned against the wall beside his bed. He used its brass butt-plate to reach over the bed and tap on the inside wall, three times, then three times more, and then three again.

  * * *

  Walt woke. What the…? The tapping came again, loud through the thin partition, three light blows, then three more.

  Beside him, Rose muttered sleepily, “What on earth…?”

  “Trouble!” he said succinctly, grabbing a Remington revolver from his bedside table. He knocked three times on the wall with its barrel, to tell Jacob that his message had been received. The tapping from the far side stopped at once.

  Rose swung her legs out of bed. “Where do you want me?” she whispered.

  He smiled at her, proud of her instant readiness to stand by him. “Take your shotgun,” he said softly, nodding towards the double-barreled twenty-gauge he’d bought her the year before. He kept it loaded with buckshot in the house, in case of an emergency. “Three taps means the trouble’s in the rear, so we’ll cover the back door.”

  “And Jacob?”

  “He’ll try to help from out there. We’ll take care of in here.”

  * * *

  Bart led the way across the back yard, stepping softly, carefully. As they drew near the house, he took a last look around. No lights were burning in any of the buildings he could see. Good. They’re all asleep, he thought, his fury building anew now that he was so close to avenging his son.

  The servant’s lean-to shack occupied the first two-thirds of the rear wall. A door in its side faced to the right, a few feet away from the back door to the house. Bart pointed to Rin, then to the lean-to. Rin nodded and moved ahead of them, gun held ready in his hand. He reached down, twisted the handle of the lean-to door, and gently pushed it open.

  A shot blasted from the dark interior. Rin screamed and reeled back, dropping his gun and clutching his chest, then collapsed across the path, kicking and twisting, no more than three or four feet away from the house’s rear door.

  Bart froze for a split-second in stunned surprise, then pumped three rounds through the wall of the lean-to, spacing them along its length. A cry of agony came from inside. “Move!” he yelled at his sons, and leapt forward. He raised his foot, drew it back, and delivered a stamping kick beneath the lock on the back door of the house. Something snapped, and the door sprang open.

  This wasn’t the first time Bart had done something like this, and he’d learned caution. He didn’t rush inside, but dropped to the ground on top of Rin’s still-writhing body, raising his head to scan the dark interior. As he did, Brad sprang forward into the doorway. He tried to scream “Ames!” but his stiff jaw made it come out as a muffled mumble instead.

  * * *

  Walt and Rose jumped as the shot boomed out from the servant’s lean-to. “Stand by!” he called, the need for silence now past, and lined his cocked revolver at the rear door. Beside him, Rose lifted her shotgun and took aim.

  Three more shots sounded, then the door suddenly crashed open. One figure fell to the ground, but another one jumped forward, silhouetted in the doorway against the faint moonlight. Walt and Rose fired simultaneously, his bullet and her charge of buckshot both impacting full in the intruder’s chest. He squalled in agony, then toppled straight back, like a tree being felled.

  * * *

  Bart stared in shock and horror as his oldest son collapsed backwards. He rolled out of the way just in time as Brad’s body landed where he’d been lying split-seconds before. He screamed, without looking around, “Ben, take the front!” Nothing mattered now except to get the man who’d just killed another of his sons. His world shrank to that one enraged, psychotic focus, shutting out everything and everyone else.

  Not waiting to see whether his order had been obeyed, he fired the last three rounds in his revolver through the open back door, traversing them across the dark space. He heard a yell from inside as he dropped the empty weapon, grabbing the one in Brad’s hand. His son held onto it with a reflexive, vise-like grasp as he gasped out his last breaths. Bart had to rip it bodily from his gripping fingers.

  He fired three more rounds into the lean-to structure, to keep down whoever was inside, then hefted the gun and moved forward.

  * * *

  Ben heard his father’s cry and instinctively obeyed, heading around the side of the house towards the front door. As he rounded the corner, he saw that a side window was partly open, its lace curtain waving gently in the slight breeze. He skidded to a halt and shoved his head inside, to see a man kneeling at the end of a passage, facing towards the rear of the house. A woman was by his side, standing nearer to the window and aiming a shotgun towards the back door. Her head turned towards him as he lined his revolver. He saw her mouth open, and her shotgun start to swing in his direction.

  * * *

  Crouched behind a bush across the street, Parsons was taken completely by surprise by the sudden blast of gunfire from behind the house. The building had hidden the advancing intruders from view, and the sounds they’d made on their arrival hadn’t carried to where he’d taken
up position. He cursed obscenely as he realized that there must be a rear alley he hadn’t noticed earlier, giving Furlong and his men a way to get to Ames’ home that he hadn’t covered.

  He ran forward into the street, holding his rifle ready for action. In the same instant, a figure ran around the corner of the house, then stopped, turned to face it, and thrust its head into an open window. He threw his Winchester to his shoulder, triggering three fast rounds, but even as he squeezed off the first, he heard a shot from the man’s revolver. All his bullets hit the intruder, who screamed, twisted, and collapsed onto the window-sill. His lower body and legs twitched and jerked, while his head, shoulders and right arm were hidden inside the building.

  From behind and inside the house, more shots sounded. Parsons began to move forward again, but stopped dead in his tracks as he heard shouts of alarm from the houses around him. “Who’s out there?” “What’s going on?” “Get your gun!”

  He made an instant decision. Whatever the outcome of this fight, if one of the aroused citizens got him in his gunsights, he wouldn’t be getting out of here. Many of the townsfolk would be Civil War veterans, or would have come here on wagon trains across Indian territory. They’d all stayed alive by learning to use their weapons to kill their enemies. There was no point in becoming yet another notch on their buttstocks.

  He spun on his heel and ran like the wind into the welcome, concealing darkness of the night. He’d tied his horses to a tree outside town, and would have to run almost half a mile to reach them. His overtaxed legs began to burn, making him stagger as he fought his exhaustion. He’d have to cover many more miles tonight, to evade any pursuit.