Rocky Mountain Retribution (The Ames Archives Book 2)

by Peter Grant

  “Walt Ames? I’ve heard the name. Are you that Injun fighter?” Allison asked, holding out his hand.

  Walt came to his feet and took it. “I don’t claim that title, understand, but people call me that.”

  “Well, you shot that Injun war chief’s medicine bundle clean outta his hands at half a mile, didn’t you? I’d say that’s good enough shootin’ to give any man a reputation to be proud of!”

  Walt shook his head as he waved his hand at their table. “Care to join us? It wasn’t half a mile—more like five or six hundred yards, and I hit it by sheer blind luck. I was aiming for his chest!”

  Allison laughed again. “Ain’t that allus the way? The story gets better as time goes on an’ it gets re-told. Still, a lucky hit ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at in a shootin’ war. Barkeep, bring out two bottles o’ my good stuff. I’ll let Mr. Ames buy one, to celebrate a hell of a shot.”

  “Thanks,” Walt said as they pulled up a third table, then sat down. “I wouldn’t want my men to have to drink that rotgut.” He went around the table, introducing them.

  “I’m Clay Allison,” the new arrival responded, “an’ this is Pete Obregon an’ Slim Dade. We’re just passin’ through tonight, on the way back to my place. The cold got too much for us, too.”

  “Pleased to meet you all. I hope it breaks soon, to let us get some miles under our belts. We’re heading for Albuquerque, and at this rate we’ll be lucky to get there by the new year.”

  “Pete here’s a weather witch. What d’you say, Pete?”

  “I reckon this won’t last more’n a day or two longer,” the cowhand said. “It won’t get real warm, mind you, but the killin’ cold should ease up. I reckon we’ll get a couple weeks o’ better weather before the snow comes down again. Further out, I can’t say.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Walt said fervently. “We’ll spend the day here tomorrow, relaxing, getting warm clear through again, buying some fresh clothes, catching up on our sleep, and letting the horses rest. The next day, I want to be on our way again.”

  The conversation became general, Nate swapping stories with Allison’s cowhands, and the others trying to top them. Laughter and good-natured insults flew back and forth.

  Beneath the cover of the loud conversation, Walt looked at Clay. “I recall hearing that you enlisted in the Confederate Army in Tennessee. That right?”

  “Yeah. I was in the Light Artillery at first, then re-enlisted in the 9th Cavalry. I served the last years of the war under Gen’ral Forrest.”

  “I’m from Tennessee, too. I enlisted in the 2nd Cavalry, then transferred to the 1st Virginia after I was sent there with a message. I was a scout and courier.”

  “Waal, I swan! I guess that makes us comrades in arms. Put ’er there.” They shook hands again, very firmly, then spent time telling each other how they’d gotten from their Tennessee roots to where they were today.

  Clay asked, “Walt, how the hell did you make a shot like that on that Injun war chief with only one hand?”

  Walt shook his head, unaware that Allison could see the sorrow and loss that flickered across his face. “I had both hands until a few months back. A bunch of stock thieves attacked my wife and I in our home. I’d hanged some of them that hit one of my wagon trains. She was killed. One of their bullets hit my hand, and the doctor had to take it off.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear that,” Allison said sincerely. “Did you get ’em all?”

  “They ended up dead, but the man behind them is still walking around. I’m looking for him now. When I find him, it’s going to be him or me.”

  “No other way,” the famous gunman nodded approvingly. “I like a man who kills his own snakes. If you find him around these parts, and you need any help holding down his men so you can get to him, just say the word an’ I’ll come a-runnin’. I got no time for woman-killers.”

  “Thank you; but if I’ve guessed right, he’s not near here. It’ll take us a few weeks to check out a few places. That’ll narrow it down to where he’s likely to be.”

  “Waal, good luck. I hope you get him. You plannin’ on another o’ those long-range shots?”

  “Not unless I’ve no other choice. I want him to know who’s killing him, and why. That means up close, if I can.”

  “You reckon you can take him?”

  Nate was sitting nearby, and had heard their conversation. He turned his head. “Clay, I reckon you’re the fastest man with a gun I’ve ever seen, but I’d rate Walt real close to you—faster than me, for certain. I’ve seen him practicin’ with his new Smith an’ Wessons. He can sure make them dogs bark.”

  “That so?” Allison’s eyebrows rose. “That the new Russian model?”

  “It is.” Walt drew his right-hand gun, pulled the hammer back to the half-cock position, shoved the barrel down between his legs, opened the action, ejected the shells, and handed it over. Clay inspected it carefully.

  “Looks nice, although it balances different to my Colts. How does it shoot?”

  “It’s real accurate. The best feature for someone like me is how easy it is to reload with only one hand. Watch.”

  Walt pushed the barrel of the opened gun down between his legs once more; picked up the five rounds from the table and dropped them, one at a time, into the chambers; then he lifted the butt of the gun sharply, to close the action. The whole process took less than ten seconds. He made sure an empty chamber would be under the hammer, lowered it, and slid the loaded gun into its holster once more.

  Allison had watched the process carefully. “That’s a faster reload than I’ve seen with any revolver, even usin’ two hands. Colt’s gonna have to come up with somethin’ real good if they want to match that. Care to have a shootin’ contest out back tomorrow? We can see who’s fastest, in a friendly way.”

  “Naw, not in this cold. It doesn’t really matter that much, anyway. One man may be faster than another, but that isn’t necessarily enough to stop the other man getting lead into him, even after he’s been hit. What counts is your mind and your guts and your spirit. If you’re determined to kill the other man, no matter what, he’s in big trouble, even if he’s faster than you. Unless his first shot goes plumb through your brain, you’ll likely get him, too.”

  “You speak wisdom.” Clay sipped his whiskey moodily. “I wish more folks understood that. Sure, I’m fast, but if I have a bad day, anyone might beat me.”

  “Yeah. It’s like rifle shooting. With my Remington sporting rifle, even with only one hand, given a shooting stick and a calm day, I’ll guarantee to put nine out of ten rounds into a thirty-inch circle at five hundred yards, using open sights. I’ll do the same into a twenty-inch, maybe even a fifteen-inch circle on a good day, if I use a telescope sight. I don’t care who you are, you aren’t going to do much better than that, not with that rifle. It’s near on the best it can do in anyone’s hands, not just mine. Even so, on a bad day, if I make just one mistake, you’ll likely beat me.”

  “Truly spoken. I hope you find your man, Walt, an’ I hope you’re fast enough an’ determined enough to put him down when the time comes.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  * * *

  Parsons read the letter a second time, then a third. He laid it on the desk, rose, and walked slowly back and forth, up and down his study, thinking. So, Smith’s information had been correct. His man in Denver had just confirmed it. Ames had bought a ticket on the transcontinental train, and left for New York. He had an open-dated return ticket, so it was anyone’s guess when he’d be back. If he had more surgery on the stump of his left wrist, that would take at least several weeks to heal enough to allow him to travel—perhaps as long as three months.

  Drake put his head around the door. “You want coffee, boss? I’m fixin’ to get myself some.”

  “Sure, thanks, Drake.”

  When he returned with two steaming mugs, Parsons joined him in front of the fireplace in the sitting-room, pouring out its warmth against the winter ch
ill. He sipped appreciatively. “This is good coffee. Did you make it?”

  “Sure did, boss. These greasers may cook halfway decent food, but they sure don’t know how to make coffee right.”

  “I have to agree with you, but don’t let Maria hear you say that. She’d be offended.” He took another sip. “Looks like we won’t have to worry about Mr. Ames for a while. He’s gone to New York, to get a specialist to look at his left arm.”

  “So mebbe that Furlong did something right before he got himself killed?”

  Parsons’ brow darkened. “Like hell he did something right! If he’d obeyed my orders, we wouldn’t have had to run for it, and I wouldn’t have lost thousands of dollars in investments I can’t touch anymore. If Ames hadn’t killed him, I’d have done so myself, the first chance I got!”

  Drake adroitly changed the subject. “So, will you call the others back here early?”

  “No, I’ll leave them out there. There’s enough work to keep them busy until spring. I’ll write to them, though, to let them know Ames won’t be a factor for the rest of the winter. They needn’t worry about watching out for snoopers. They can get on with other things.”

  After he’d finished his coffee, he returned to his study, and sat down to write to Morley in the valley, and Shelton and Travis up in Colorado. As he wrote, his mind idly considered possibilities. He’d succeeded in blocking that Colorado Ranger who’d been trying to help Ames. That had shut down the most threatening line of inquiry. All his former gang leaders were dead, and could no longer answer questions. Ames could search official registries, but in the absence of any leads to narrow down the task, he’d be confronted by a morass of transactions, company registrations, and land transfers. None bore Parsons’ name, and all would have to be checked out. Investigating them would take years, and was probably impractical.

  All those factors should mean he was now safe from Ames’ revenge, but one never knew. A chance encounter with someone who recognized him… that person mentioning it in the hearing of someone who knew Ames… and the hunt would be on again.

  “Sorry, Ames,” he murmured aloud as he sealed the first envelope, “but when you get back, I’m going to have to send my men to deal with you. It boils down to your life, or mine. I can’t have that hanging over my head. Once you’re dead, I can relax and enjoy what I’ve got left. Who knows? With all the shenanigans the Santa Fe Ring is pulling over Spanish land grants, I daresay someone like me, operating around the edges, with an eye for an opening and the money to take advantage of it, might find a way to turn another dishonest dollar or two.”

  He made a mental note to pull even more money out of his bank. He’d already transferred all his funds to New Mexico banks, and tripled his on-hand cash reserves, after having had to run from Salida without having time to draw more. Even so, if an unexpected opportunity arose, that might not be enough. It would be best to be ready. No-one in his experience had ever complained about having to accept gold coins and crisp banknotes, instead of a check that might, or might not, be honored. Even better—and a vital factor when dealing with people as potentially dangerous as the Santa Fe Ring—a cash payment, for a purchase made in the name of an anonymous bearer share company, couldn’t be traced back to him, so he wouldn’t have to fear their retaliation. There was a lot to be said for that.

  * * *

  The eight men clattered into Albuquerque just before Christmas. Walt settled them into a small but comfortable hotel. Everyone was glad for the opportunity to rest and recuperate after their long, hard, and very cold ride.

  That night, he went to the cantina Rosalva had mentioned. It was, indeed, more like a saloon, a much larger place than he’d expect to find in the Mexican quarter of a Colorado town. On the other hand, he reflected, this town was more Mexican than American, in terms of its history and culture.

  He bought a whisky at the bar, and sipped it as he looked around; then he turned back to the bartender. “I was told to ask for Marisa.”

  The man looked at him expressionlessly. “Who told you that, señor?”

  “A lady named Rosalva, in the town of Fairplay in Colorado. She wrote to Marisa, to tell her I’d be stopping by. I have a letter of introduction from her.”

  Wordlessly, the man held out his hand. Walt took the letter from his inside pocket and handed it to him.

  “I will ask whether anyone of that name is here, señor.”

  “Thanks.”

  Walt had to hide a grin as the man walked away. He was clearly very suspicious of this unknown gringo wanting to see his employer. That boded well for his mission here. Anyone so wary of outsiders probably had something to hide… and that probably meant they had resources outside the usual run of things, that might provide the information he needed.

  The man came back almost at once. “Marisa says she will see you, señor. Please go through there.” He indicated a door at the far end of the bar.

  “Thank you.”

  Walt drained his glass, set it on the counter, and walked the length of the bar. As he moved, his eyes catalogued the clientele. Most were of Mexican origin or descent, several with features indicating some Indian parentage as well. Only a few Anglos were in evidence. He tapped at the door, waited a moment, then twisted the handle and walked in.

  The room beyond was a spacious office, with a desk set in the center of the floor facing the door. A woman rose from behind it as he closed the door. She was middle-aged, a little dumpy, with a plain face, the sort of person one wouldn’t consider remarkable and might pass over in a crowd; but he noticed the litheness with which she moved, and the spring in her step as she walked around the desk. As she did so, he heard a very faint sound from behind a curtained alcove on the right side of the office. He tensed imperceptibly as he walked forward to take her proffered hand.

  “Señor Ames, I am Marisa. Rosalva mentioned that a gringo would come to see me, but she didn’t give your name.”

  “No, we figured it would be better for her not to mention it, in case someone read her letter who shouldn’t. I’d rather not have it widely known that I’m in New Mexico.”

  “Please sit down, señor.” She began to move around her desk to return to her seat. “What can I do for you?”

  “For a start, ma’am, you can tell me why you don’t trust me, even after Rosalva’s letter.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, señor.”

  With a rasp of steel on leather, Walt’s right-hand revolver came out of its holster, covering the curtained alcove. The hammer clicked as he cocked it. “Do I need to shoot whoever’s in there, or will you tell them to come out?”

  She smiled slowly. “You need not fear, señor. That was just a small precaution, you understand? My assistant is trustworthy.”

  “I’m sure you trust him, ma’am, but I don’t know him. How about bringing him out here, so we can be introduced?” Walt’s gun didn’t waver.

  “Very well, señor. Lazaro, come out.”

  The curtain swung back, and a mustachioed Mexican stepped into the room. He moved slowly and carefully, eyes on Walt’s gun, holding his hand clear of his own. “You move very fast, señor,” he said.

  “When I have to.” Walt uncocked his revolver and holstered it.

  “I merely protect the señora in case she has… difficulties… with some of her visitors, you understand.”

  “I do. It’s a wise precaution. However, what I have to say to her is private.”

  “Señora?” Lazaro glanced at his employer.

  “I think Mr. Ames is not likely to cause difficulties, Lazaro. You can go.”

  “As you wish, señora.”

  The man let himself out of the room, closing the door behind him. As he did so, Walt sat down. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Ames?”

  In answer, Walt reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and counted out a hundred dollars. “Rosalva said you’d be the best source of information I could find in New Mexico Territory. The b
est always costs money, I know, so this is for your time this evening.”

  She picked up the banknotes and ruffled through them, then nodded. “A hundred dollars certainly entitles you to my attention, señor.”

  “Let me start at the beginning.”

  Walt gave her a concise version of what had led him to her cantina that evening, including his contact with Rosalva in Fairplay, Rose’s death, and his mission of vengeance. “I reckon Parsons is probably somewhere near Taos, but there are three likely places. The furthest away from there is closer to here, so I’m going to check it out first. I don’t reckon I’ll find him there, but I may find some of his men, and make them talk. While I’m doing that, I’ll be real grateful if you can have someone look for Parsons in and around Taos, to see if he’s there.”

  “How will they know him, señor?”

  Walt passed a printed page across the desk. “These are descriptions of how he and his four top men looked back in Colorado. They may have changed their hair color, grown or shaved off their beards, or changed their names since then. Also, Parsons rode here on two horses.” He handed her another paper. “These are detailed descriptions of them. I think you’re likely to find him living on a property outside town—how far out, I’m not sure. He bought a lot of small places some years ago. They look to have been consolidated into one larger property.” He pointed out their approximate location on a map he took from his inside jacket pocket. “Finally, he uses this postal address in Taos.” He handed it over, written on another sheet of paper. “I think he has someone check it at least weekly for mail, maybe more often.”

  She nodded. “I think this gives me enough to work with, señor. How should I contact you if I learn anything?”

  “Do you have someone in Taos from whom I can collect it?”

  “I do. When do you expect to be there?”

  “I’m not sure, but probably not less than two weeks from now, maybe three or more.”

  “Very well. If I find what you need, it will cost you another hundred dollars.”