Rocky Mountain Retribution (The Ames Archives Book 2)

by Peter Grant

  Now, replete after a meal of coal-grilled steak and potatoes, they sat around the fireplace, chatting idly. “What news of this Parsons guy, boss?” Nate asked.

  “Nothing so far,” Walt had to admit. “It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the earth. I reckon he’s probably changed his name. I’ve got a lot of people looking for him, and some folks with good contacts are doing the same, but I guess it’ll take time. We need to give people more to look for than just a name or a description.”

  “What about that property register search, suh?” Isom wanted to know.

  “It’s turned up dozens of properties out west that were bought by companies. I reckon Parsons’ places are probably among them, but which are they? It’s going to take more checking. I’ve got someone in Denver doing that right now.” Walt hadn’t told anyone except Samson and Isom that a Colorado Ranger was helping him. If that news got back to his superiors, Dunnett’s career would be over at once, if not sooner.

  “Have you all got everything you need?” he asked, looking around the room. “I’ve ordered more ammunition, because we’re going through it like a thirsty man drinking water in the desert. Anything else?”

  “A horse, sir,” Jack Moultrie said. “Mine had to work hard last summer, then ride hard to get here. He’s just too worn out for a long, tough ride through winter snow.”

  “Mine, too, señor,” Pablo admitted. “He has speed, but not the endurance or stamina to ride for weeks or months on end.”

  “All right,” Walt acknowledged. “The stock fair’s next week. I’ll give you six hundred dollars against your bonuses. That should buy two real good horses. You’re going to trust your lives to them, remember, so get the best you can afford. Make sure the seller has a clean bill of sale for them from wherever he bought them, and make sure he gives you one, too. I don’t want any problems with stolen stock.”

  “We’ll do that, sir,” Jack promised, and Pablo nodded.

  Jack and Pablo rode to the County Fairgrounds the following week, and picketed their horses in a field set aside for the purpose. An eager youngster in a cart offloaded a couple of forkfuls of hay for each horse, and set out buckets of water. They tipped him a dime to keep an eye on them, with a promise of another dime when they returned, if all was in order.

  The two wandered through the fairgrounds for a couple of hours, looking over the stock offered by various dealers with knowing, critical eyes. “Plenty o’ horses, but none that take my fancy for a long, hard ride,” Jack concluded as they turned from the last dealer in the row.

  Pablo nodded. “You are right, amigo. What say we talk to the private sellers?”

  “Why not?”

  Several individuals had brought in stock for sale, which was gathered in a space set aside for the purpose. As the two approached it, another man came up from the opposite direction. He was leading two horses that instantly caught their attention, a black and a bay.

  “Hey, there! Look at those!” Jack muttered. “That’s the best horseflesh I’ve seen all morning.”

  “I agree,” Pablo replied, also speaking quietly. “Let us talk to him quickly, before anyone else sees them.”

  They intercepted the man before he could turn into the private sale area. “You sellin’ those, mister?” Jack asked.

  “Sure am. You interested?”

  “Might be. I’m Jack, this is Pablo.”

  “I’m Jud Smith. Don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts before.”

  “Naw, we’re just passin’ through. Our hosses are tuckered out after ridin’ up from Texas. We figured we’d see if we could afford something better.”

  “These two are better than most I’ve seen in these parts. I got them from a feller who brought them down from Cañon City. He’d ridden them hard, and had a long way to go, so he got two fresh horses from me and left these in trade. I fed ’em plenty of oats and hay, and gave ’em time to rest and get over their hard ride. They’re in fine fettle now.”

  “You got a bill of sale from him?”

  “I sure did. With all the trouble over stolen stock these days, you’ve got to be able to prove you own it all nice and legal. I’ve got it in here.” He patted his jacket.

  “That’s for certain sure. Mind if we look over ’em?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The two men ran their critical eyes and experienced hands over the horses, from nose to tail and forelock to hoof. The animals were clearly in very good shape, as a quick ride up and down the fairground track soon confirmed.

  “How much did you want for ’em, mister?”

  “How about three hundred fifty apiece?”

  Pablo snorted. “Señor, I did not notice any solid gold horseshoes on these animals. That is what it would take to make them worth that much!”

  The good-natured bargaining continued briskly for a few minutes, until they settled on two hundred and seventy-five dollars apiece. Jack counted out the purchase price from the banknotes Walt had given him. He put away his wallet, and asked, “About that bill of sale?”

  “Sure. Let me borrow a pen from that man at the table, and I’ll endorse it over to you.”

  They walked the horses over to the table, and Smith endorsed the bill of sale on the rear of the paper, signing his name and giving his address. He handed it to Jack, who read both sides carefully. “This looks to be in order,” he said, handing over the money, then offering his hand.

  Smith shook it. “Nice doing business with you boys.”

  “And with you, señor,” Pablo told him.

  As the seller walked away, the Mexican took the bill of sale from Jack and read through it as well. He’d turned it over, and was reading the endorsement, when he suddenly frowned and turned back to the first side. He read it again, and hissed between his teeth.

  “Is there a problem, amigo?” Jack asked.

  “Not here! Quick, let us take these horses back to our own, then go somewhere we can talk without being overheard.”

  “But I aimed to get me some of them there doughnuts,” Jack protested, pointing to a tented booth from which wafted tantalizing odors.

  “Not now. This is very important. Trust me.”

  “If you say so, but it better be good!”

  * * *

  Isom was giving Walt more lessons in saddling and unsaddling a horse, using only one hand and a hook, when the rapid clatter of hooves across the freight yard announced the arrival of a rider in a hurry. Jacob pulled up at the entrance to the barn.

  “Boss, Jack and Pablo just got back to the farm. They seem real excited about something. They said you gotta come out there right now.”

  “Surely not to see their new horses?”

  “No, sir, although they bought two. They was lookin’ at a piece of paper, an’ said they had to show it to you right away. They said it’s to do with why you hired us. They was all set to come in themselves, but we reminded ’em you’d said they warn’t to be seen here.”

  Walt glanced at Isom, puzzled. “Any idea?”

  “No, suh, but I reckon if they’re that excited, it must be important.”

  “All right. Let’s saddle up and head out there.”

  The three riders pulled up outside the farmhouse, only to find Jack and Pablo running from the building, full-tilt, not even giving them time to dismount. Jack thrust a piece of paper at Walt. “Read this!”

  “What is it?” Walt swung down from his saddle, and took it from him.

  “It is the bill of sale for our new horses,” Pablo informed him.

  Mystified, Walt began to read it. A name jumped out at him from the text, and he let out an incredulous shout. “Parsons?”

  “Yessir!” Jack said proudly. “When we saw that, we figured it had to be the man you hired us to find.”

  “There is more, sir,” Pablo said quietly. “Parsons bought these horses in Cañon City in the morning, and traded them to this Mr. Smith that very same day. He must have ridden them like the wind, to get here so fast.”


  Walt glanced back up at the top of the bill of sale, where the dealer in Cañon City had written the date of the transaction. “That’s the day Rose was killed!”

  “The hell you say!” Isom exclaimed.

  Walt finished reading the bill of sale, turned it over, glanced at the newly added text, and laughed, a short, sharp, unpleasant sound. “And the man who sold them to you—the man who got them from Parsons—was kind enough to put his name and address on the back. It’s on the edge of the far side of town.” He handed the paper to Isom.

  “What do you–” Jack began, but Walt held up his hand.

  “Let me think.”

  He began pacing up and down the yard, hands—or rather, one hand and one iron hook—clasped behind his back, head bent. Isom finished reading the bill of sale, folded it, and waited. The others had come out to join them. Everyone watched Walt as he paced, but he was oblivious to their gaze.

  After almost ten minutes, he sighed and looked up. “Come inside, all of you. I think I’ve got this figured out.”

  When they were all seated, he began, “First off, we know Parsons didn’t want anything to happen to me—at least, not for a while. He said as much to his four men in Salida before they left. I reckon Furlong found out where I was from someone else, and learned I’d hanged his son and burned down his house. I think he came to get his revenge, without telling Parsons about it. Now, what if Parsons heard about that at the last minute—say, the day before it happened?”

  “He’d try to stop Furlong,” Isom guessed.

  “I think so, too; but he had a problem. Remember, he’d already sent off his four top men—we know he rode back to his farm alone. He couldn’t send a telegraph message here, to warn whoever was working for him—presumably this Smith—because the message would have to talk about a planned attack or murder. Any telegraph operator seeing that would alert the local marshal or sheriff, and tell him who’d sent the message. The operator at Salida would know him, thanks to the number of messages Parsons sent and received, so he couldn’t risk that. A letter wouldn’t get here in time. There was only one thing he could do.”

  “You reckon he tried to get here himself, in time to stop Furlong?” Isom asked.

  “That’s exactly what I think he did. Salida’s about a hundred miles from here, up and down a lot of hills and mountains. You’ve got to be strong and fit for that sort of ride, but if a man and his horses are in good shape, it can be done. I covered a hundred and twenty miles from midday to midday once, during the war, carrying an urgent dispatch through enemy lines. I killed a good horse doing it, and wore out another one, an’ damn near rode myself to death too, but I made it.

  “If Parsons left by mid-afternoon, the day before the attack, and rode through the night, he’d have reached Cañon City, about sixty miles from Salida, next morning.” Walt nodded towards the bill of sale, which Isom still held. “He traded two horses to the dealer there, those he’d ridden from his farm. They’d have been exhausted by then. He paid high for the best two horses the dealer had, then rode on. It’s forty miles from Cañon City to Pueblo, so he’d have reached here by late afternoon.

  “I’m guessing he either bought two horses from Smith, or wired him before he got here, telling him to buy two. Either way, Smith had fresh mounts waiting for him. Parsons signed over his worn-out horses to him, in full or part exchange for the new ones. Smith fed them well and gave them time to recover, then sold them this morning. It’d make sense for him to wait to sell them at the stock fair, because they’re real good horses, much better than the average cowhand’s mount. A man can’t afford horses like that on twenty or thirty dollars a month. There’d be more buyers at a fair like this, and he’d expect to get better prices for them.”

  “I reckon you’re right, sir,” Jack agreed excitedly. “They sure are good hosses. Pablo’s taken the black, to match his clothes.” A ripple of amusement ran around the room. “I’ve taken the brown.”

  “All right. Now, let’s think what Parsons might have planned to do here. I’m guessing he didn’t try to persuade Furlong to leave me alone. He’d have known he wouldn’t listen to any such talk. Furlong would have been after me like a dog after a bitch in heat.” Walt glanced at Isom. “Remember what you said about Ben Furlong? How he was found with three Winchester bullets in his body, that had been fired from the road?”

  Isom drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. “You reckon that was Parsons?”

  “It could have been. What if he was watching the house from the road, ready to try to stop Furlong when he came along? What if he didn’t know about the back alley? When the shooting started, he might have been taken by surprise. He might have run into the road, just in time to see Ben come around the corner of the house. He might have shot him, then realized that the shooting had woken everyone in the houses all around. Rather than be mistaken for one of Furlong’s gang, and maybe getting shot for it, he ran for his horses.”

  “Mebbe so. I hate to think you might owe Parsons for something, though, boss.”

  “I don’t owe him anything except death!” Walt’s voice was flat, emphatic. “This whole mess started when he told Furlong where to find my wagon train, so he could steal my horses and mules. Everything since then is on Parsons’ shoulders because of that, and I’m going to make him pay for every last bit of it.” The others rumbled their agreement.

  Walt turned to Jack and Pablo. “What did Smith look like?”

  “He was wearin’ an old black suit, suh,” Jack began, “but it was faded an’ worn. The seat of his pants was shiny.”

  Pablo added, “His white shirt was clean and ironed, but not starched, and it had no collar. He wore farm style boots, low and round-toed. One of them had manure on the sole. He was about your height, señor, but thinner and older. His hair and beard were dark brown, with gray streaks.”

  “The boots sound like a farmer, but not the rest of his outfit.”

  “No, señor, they were more like what a schoolteacher or a store clerk would wear.”

  “What’re you gonna do now?” Nate asked. “I mean, now that you know all this.”

  “A lot,” Walt replied. “First off, if Smith was—is—Parsons’ contact in Pueblo, sending him reports about me, you know what that means?”

  “He’s got to mail the reports to an address,” Tom said quietly.

  “You got it in one. If we talk real nicely to Mr. Smith, he might tell us where that is. It may be just a postal address, not where Parsons is staying, of course; he’s used that trick before. Still, it’ll get us closer to him than we are now.

  “The next thing is, Parsons made over this bill of sale to Smith in his own handwriting. In all his letters that I’ve seen before, and all the official documents he’s filled in, he used formal copperplate handwriting like they teach in schools. I do the same thing—a lot of people do. This, though… that’s how he writes when he’s not trying to be formal. It gives us something to compare to other documents if we find them. That may be important.

  “Last, and most important of all as far as I’m concerned, if Smith gave Parsons fresh horses, he’d know what they looked like—their height, color, any marks or scars or brands, all that sort of thing. If we can make him tell us about them, we can go to the address where Smith’s been sending his reports, and start asking people around there whether they’ve seen those horses. If they have…”

  “He might have sold them, but if he hasn’t, they might lead us to him,” Sam said quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  “So how do we persuade Smith to tell us all he knows?”

  “You leave that to me. Isom, Pablo, I want you to ride back to town with me. Tonight, we’re going to talk to Mr. Smith. We know where he lives, but does anyone know if he has a wife or children? Are there dogs that might give us away?”

  “I don’t know, suh,” Jacob answered, “but if Sam an’ I watch him for the rest of the day, I reckon we can find out.”

  “Do that. Make sure he doesn’t su
spect you’re watching him. Come to the freight yard early this evening to tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Yo!”

  * * *

  Smith woke from his solitary slumber to feel a hand over his mouth, and the point of a very sharp knife pricking the flesh over his Adam’s apple. “One sound outta you an’ you’ll never make another,” a voice whispered, low and deadly. He froze.

  “Get up, real slow an’ easy, an’ keep your hands where I can see ’em,” the voice continued. “I’ll take the knife away so you can do that, but it’ll still be out an’ ready. Don’t be a fool an’ try anything.”

  Smith obeyed the intruder’s instructions to the letter. When he was on his feet, a hand took him by the upper left arm and led him into the center of his combined bedroom and study. A second man made sure the drapes were fully closed, then struck a match and lit the kerosene lamp on his desk. Smith started in surprise as he recognized the man, wearing all black clothing. He’d been one of the two who’d bought his horses that morning.

  A third man, moving behind Smith, fumbled with his bedding. He heard a voice he knew say mockingly, “Well, well, well. What would you be doing with a gun and a wallet under your pillow?”

  “I– I don’t have anywhere safer to keep my money, Mr. Ames.”

  “I see you know my voice. That figures. After all, you’ve been reporting about me to Mr. Parsons for a long time.”

  Smith’s heart gave an unsteady lurch as he heard the name. He tried to bluff. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. Matter of fact, reporting isn’t all you did for him. Remember those two horses? The ones he got from you, to replace those he’d worn out galloping all the way from Cañon City?”

  Smith felt a rush of sudden panic. If this man knew about that… Ames must have read the bill of sale he’d given to the two men this morning.