by Peter Grant
“I won’t take your bet, because I think you’d win. What did you do to stop Sanchez ending up the same way?”
“We had one of our Rangers down Trinidad way, checkin’ on a cattle rustlin’ problem ’tween here an’ New Mexico. I wired him, an’ got him to arrest Sanchez and his brothers for bein’ part of it. After he talked to the judge, they were denied bail, so they’re sittin’ in jail in Trinidad. I’m on my way down there to talk to ’em. As far as my boss knows, it’s about the rustlin’; but when I ask if they know Parsons, an’ tell them his other gang bosses have disappeared, they might be grateful enough to talk to me. I’ll let ’em go if they tell me everythin’. They’re just pawns, after all. They ain’t the big shots.”
“Mr. Dunnett, you’re one hell of an investigator, sir! My hat’s off to you.”
Dunnett mock-sniffed. “That don’t mean much right now. You can’t wear a hat to doff it, with that bandage round your head!” They shared a laugh. “How did you know those names?”
Walt explained what he’d learned in Fairplay, and what Sam had discovered in Salida. “I’ve got my own networks of informers. I’ve passed out descriptions of Parsons and all four men. Here, see for yourself.” He took a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to Dunnett. “I had these printed up, and sent them to everyone I’ve got looking for them. If they’re in eastern Colorado, anywhere up to the Continental Divide, I reckon they’ve got to be seen sooner or later.”
“What if they go west of the Divide, or out of the Territory altogether? What if they change how they look?”
“I’m going to be looking for information out west as well, but I don’t have contacts out there yet. Perhaps you can ask your Ranger friends to look there?” Dunnett nodded. “As for how they look, there’s only so much they can do—shave or grow their beards, and wear different clothes. They may change their names, too, but I reckon sooner or later someone will recognize them, or they’ll make a mistake, and I’ll hear about it.”
“Sounds like you’ve been thinkin’ hard about this. I hope it works. I’ll keep you posted on everythin’ I hear. If you need any more information, or learn anything, tell me.” He took out a notebook, wrote down an address, tore out the page, and handed it to Walt. “That’s where I live. Write me there, an’ I’ll see what I can do to help. I’ll write you here if I learn anything.”
“I’m grateful to you. Can I pay your expenses? Understand, I’m not trying to bribe you. I’m sure there’ll be costs involved in helping me—mail, telegraph messages, tips to informers, that sort of thing.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Ames. It’s just the way I work. If I hit anything real expensive, I’ll ask you to cover it, but for right now, let’s leave it the way it is.”
“Thank you, sir. I respect your honesty.” Walt hesitated. “Can I ask you a question, off the record?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Without giving any details, Walt explained that Parsons was probably investing the proceeds of his crimes in property or other assets, using bearer share companies. “As I understand it, it’ll be almost impossible to prove they were bought using stolen money. It’ll also be real hard to recover anything through the courts, because we can’t prove Parsons owns them. If I come across anything like that, what should I do?”
Dunnett shrugged. “It’s like you said. We can’t prove anything, because of the way he’s set this up. He’s got enough influence that we probably can’t force him into court to confiscate it—and even if we could, look how he shut me down. Without a proper investigation, how could we prove our case, and even if we could, how would we know who gets the money? If you keep some of it, or share it with those who help you get Parsons an’ his men, I ain’t got no problem at all with that. I reckon you’ll have earned it, ’cause you’ll be doin’ the job I’ve been stopped from doin’—protectin’ society from Parsons, I mean. I can’t think of a better use for stolen money that can’t be recovered.”
Walt’s brow cleared. “Thanks, Mr. Dunnett. You’ve taken a load off my mind.”
“Glad I could help. Now, I’m headin’ for Trinidad. I’ll let you know what I learn.”
Dunnett passed through Pueblo again a week later, and stopped at the freight yard to talk to Walt.
“I learned a lot,” he began. “Sanchez an’ his brothers didn’t want to give me the time o’ day at first. They wouldn’t even look at me, much less speak to me. That changed real fast when I started tellin’ them about Parsons, and how his other gang leaders had disappeared or died. I didn’t tell ’em it was you who killed Furlong, y’see; I let ’em think it was Parsons. I offered ’em a deal. Tell me all you know, an’ I’ll escort you to the New Mexico border an’ let you go. Keep shut, an’ I’ll leave you here in your jail cell, where Parsons can find you real easy. I happened to look out the window casually, an’ mentioned how easy it would be for one man to walk up to the bars an’ slide a stick o’ dynamite through them while they were asleep. They couldn’t talk fast enough after that!”
Walt made a mental note. Dynamite… hmmm… that might be useful.
“Turns out Sanchez met Parsons three years ago, in the San Luis Valley. That’s west o’ the Continental Divide. It’s a beautiful place. Parsons was buyin’ property out there, on both sides of the border ’tween Colorado an’ New Mexico. Word was that he had gold. Sanchez and his brothers tried to rob him, but Parsons turned the tables on ’em. They said he was a real fast gun, faster than any o’ them; but, instead o’ killin’ them, he made them an offer to come and work for him out o’ Trinidad. He’d pass them the word on horses an’ mules that could be stolen, an’ they’d pay him a third o’ what they got for them. Sanchez reckons he made a lot o’ money by followin’ Parson’s orders, but he ain’t so taken with him now. He an’ his brothers told me everythin’ they know about how the system worked.
“You was right about Parsons usin’ companies, by the way. Sanchez said that every property he bought in the San Luis Valley, he registered in the name of a different company. He knows what share certificates look like—he’s probably stolen a few of ’em in his time. He saw them among Parsons’ papers.”
“I wonder if Parsons consolidated all the smaller properties into one big one, after he’d bought enough?” Walt mused. “That’s what he did in another place.”
“Maybe. If we do a search in the county property registers out there, that should tell us whether there’s a bunch of companies ownin’ small pieces of land next to each other, or whether they sold their land to a bigger company later. If there’s only one place like that, it’s probably Parsons. If there’s more than one, we’ll have to dig deeper.”
Walt regarded his visitor with respect. “I can see why you’re an investigator, Mr. Dunnett. How do we go about that?”
“I’ll get started on it. I’ve got my own sources in Denver. I might need a lawyer’s help. Do you have one there, who’ll bill you if I ask him to do something?”
“I sure do!” Walt gave him Brown’s address. “I’ll write to him, to confirm I’ll pay for whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ames. That’ll help a lot, since I can’t officially use our own people.” Dunnett rose to his feet. “I mustn’t stay any longer. I’ve still got a long way to go. I can’t wait for that damn railroad to get here! It’ll save me a lot o’ time in the saddle.”
“You and me both!”
* * *
The following week, several crates arrived, addressed to Walt personally. He had a couple of the yard staff lug them into his apartment, and invited Samson and Isom to join him there after work. They found him seated in his living-room, a claw hammer and prybar at his side, with two crates already broken open.
“What you got there, suh?” Isom asked, eyebrows rising.
“New guns.” Walt pulled out a cardboard box, laid it on the coffee table, and opened it. Inside was a gleaming Smith and Wesson Model 3 revolver, in blued steel with polished wood grips. He picked it up and handed it to Is
om, who inspected it carefully.
“Is this the new Russian model, suh?”
“Yes, it is. These are part of an order placed by the Russian government, chambered for the new .44 Russian cartridge, of course. Carlos Gove, in Denver, is one of Smith and Wesson’s top dealers west of the Mississippi. I wired him after I got hurt, telling him I wanted nine of these as fast as he could get them, whatever the price. I told him I wanted the old frame design, like your American model, not the new one with a hump in the grip—they’ll be harder to cock using only one hand. Carlos wired his contact at Smith and Wesson, who fixed it up. They took nine out of the last production batch of the first model, and sent them to him by express rail freight. I had his gunsmith shorten the barrels to six and a half inches, remount the front sight, refinish them, and smooth over the action on these six. There’s three more coming later.”
“Nine, suh?” Isom guffawed. “I’ll pay good money to see you wear all nine at once!”
Walt laughed. “No, thank you! I’d clank when I walk! Two of these are for you, Isom, and two for you, Samson.”
“Me, suh?” Samson exclaimed. “I’m going to be lookin’ after things here for you. You don’t need to buy me guns!”
“If I’m buying them for Isom and myself, I don’t see why I can’t get you some, too.” Walt dug out another box and handed it to Isom. “Here’s your second gun. I reckon you’ll do well to come and practice with us outside town now and again,” he added as he handed Samson two boxes. “Even though you’ve still got both your hands, these are real fast to reload. They’re probably the best cartridge handgun design I’ve seen yet. I’ve got holsters for them, too.”
He reached into the other open crate and handed two holsters each to Samson and Isom, already threaded onto a new gunbelt carrying a dozen loops for spare cartridges, with a soft leather flap folding over them for protection.
“I had Carlos get these made to fit the guns while his gunsmith was working on them. You’re both about the same size, which helped. They’re good, stout leather, patterned after the ‘Slim Jim’ holsters Jeremy Davis made for us in Kansas in ’65. There’s one straight-up draw, right hand for you, Samson, left for you, Isom. The other’s a cross-draw for the same hand. I know you’ve only used one gun before now, Isom, but Samson and I got used to carrying two when we crossed Kansas in ’66. A second loaded gun is a lot faster to get into action than reloading an empty one.”
“I can’t argue with you there, boss. Why did you get ’em in blued steel, ’stead o’ nickel? Nickel don’t rust as badly from blackpowder salts.”
“True, but have you ever taken out your gun at night?”
“Not real often, suh.”
“Did you notice how firelight reflects off the nickel? Moonlight does, too. That can give away your position, maybe just when it’d be most dangerous to you. A blued gun is darker. It doesn’t reflect light as brightly, so you can move around more easily at night with your gun held ready. Besides, a blued gun won’t rust any worse than a nickeled one, provided you clean it soon enough after you use it.”
“I guess so, suh. What about ammunition?”
Walt indicated more boxes along one wall. “There’s two thousand rounds there. Carlos says he’ll send another two thousand as soon as he can get them. I reckon we’ll burn up at least a thousand rounds each, getting to know these guns and practicing with them.”
Samson let out a low whistle. “You must be payin’ high to get all this here so quickly, suh.”
“I am. I’m willing to spend everything Rose and I saved to get Parsons and his men, if that’s what it will take. I’m all-in on this.”
“What about the last three guns, suh?” Isom asked.
“Did Samson or I ever show you our cut-down Army Colts?”
“No, suh.”
“Here, take a look.”
Walt drew from inside his waistcoat the revolver that Josiah Fitch had modified for a riverboat gambler. “I bought this in Nashville in ’65. The barrel’s only two inches long. It hides real well in a shoulder holster.” He explained the gun’s special features and ammunition. “After Elijah was killed by the Cheyenne in ’66, Samson took his Colts and carried them in his memory. He sent one of his old guns to Carlos Gove, and had his gunsmith modify it the same way as this one. We’ve both been grateful for them more than once.
“I’ve asked Carlos’s gunsmith to shorten the barrels of three of these Russian models to the tip of the underlug, and remount the front sight. I reckon they’ll end up about four inches long, maybe a bit less. I’m having shoulder holsters made for them. We can wear them when we can’t carry belt guns for some reason. These Army Colts conceal better, being shorter, but they’re cap-and-ball guns. Cartridges have come so far these days, and have so many advantages, that I reckon it’s time to go with them all the way.”
“Can’t argue with you there, suh,” Samson agreed. “Thank you very much. I’ll enjoy learnin’ to use these.”
Isom observed, “So, you’ve taken care of your handguns, an’ you’ve got that Winchester carbine. What about your other guns?”
“I’ve already sent that Parker shotgun, the one we took off Bart Furlong, up to Carlos. His gunsmith will cut the barrels all the way back to sixteen inches, shorten the stock, and make a thicker fore-end to take a ring, like yours. I’ll load it with buckshot.”
Isom winced. “A ten-gauge that short? It’s gonna kick like a mule—and man, oh, man, I’d sure hate for you to shoot that at me across a room! The buckshot would gut me like a fresh-caught fish, an’ the muzzle blast would fry me an’ smoke me, both at once!”
When they’d stopped laughing, Walt went on, “I’ve also asked Carlos to get me some Remington Double Derringers. They’re too low-powered and inaccurate for anything except real up-close use, but they’re better than nothing, and they’re easy to hide. Remember the one that horse thief had, near Ute Pass?” Isom nodded. “I’m getting three of those clips that fit inside the crown of a hat, one for each of us. I’m also going to see a shoemaker in Denver I’ve used before. He can make me some mule-eared boots, that I can pull on easily with one hand and a hook. I’ll have him make a hidden holster for a Derringer in the left boot, and a sheath for a small knife in the right. I don’t want to be without a weapon while Parsons is out there. If I can’t carry bigger guns for some reason, I want something in reserve.”
“You’re really loadin’ for bear, suh,” Samson said quietly, his eyes disturbed. “Even when we crossed Kansas, I never saw you this heavily armed.”
“This is war, Samson,” Walt said simply. “Either Parsons an’ his men are going to die, or I am. I’m going to do all I can to make sure it’s not me.”
There was a long silence before he went on, “I’m also thinking about something buffalo hunters use. They call them ‘shooting sticks’. I’ve seen pictures. It’s a long, straight stick with a Y-shaped fork at the top. The hunter rests his rifle barrel in it, then holds the stick with his left hand to steady it while he takes the shot. I don’t have my left hand anymore, but I reckon I can try a shooting stick, to see if it helps at long range. I’ll have to figure out how to hold it steady.”
Isom nodded. “Make ’em in different lengths, suh. You can use a shorter one while kneelin’ down or sittin’.”
“That’s a good idea. If this works, it’ll mean I can use the Winchester carbine for fast, close-up work, and my Remington for long-range shooting.”
“That’ll work,” Isom agreed. “If you figure out how to make those shootin’ sticks work for you, I’d like to try ’em with that Springfield rifle we took off Furlong. I used to be good with one o’ them. Mebbe I can be again.”
“You’d better take it with you, then, before someone else claims it.”
* * *
The following week, able to travel at last without his head causing him too much pain, Walt and Sam took a buckboard and headed for Denver. Forewarned by telegraph message, Lily and Jethro had the house ready
for them. Sam took the spare bedroom, while Walt steeled himself to walk into what had been his and Rose’s bedroom.
More than any other building, this house reminded him of Rose. They’d spent most of their married life within its walls. Even though they’d taken most of their furniture to Pueblo with them, replacing it with simpler items for use when visiting, the building still oozed heartsore memories from every nook and cranny.
I still feel like the heart’s been ripped out of my chest, Rose, he mentally addressed her as he stood in the doorway of what had been their bedroom. There hasn’t been a single day free of the pain of losing you. Sometimes it even seems right that I lost a hand, since I guess it’s partly my fault you were killed. Every time I miss my hand, it reminds me of that. I reckon it will for the rest of my life. Maybe that’s fair. Maybe I need to be reminded to think about what could go wrong, before I do something.
The following morning, Sam escorted him to a supplier of limb replacement devices. With Colorado miners suffering so many crushed and mangled limbs, Denver was becoming a big market for such equipment. A white-coated assistant greeted him, and took careful measurements of his stump and left arm before introducing him to Dr. Kaplan.
“We’ll soon have you fixed up,” that worthy assured him. “Your doctor did a good job. I’ve seen far more mutilated stumps. You’ll wear a sock over the end, of course, and pull the socket over it before strapping it around your arm, above and below the elbow. What do you want on it?”
They had a long discussion, agreeing at last that a hook like Isom’s was the most practical and useful device for someone needing to use the limb all the time, indoors and outdoors, as Walt would. A fork attachment could clamp to it for eating. He ordered two of them. “I’d better have a spare,” he explained. “I’m going to be doing a lot of traveling. If a strap breaks on one, I want another to put on right away, until I can get the strap fixed. How long will it take to make them?”
