Nest of Vipers (9781101613283)

by Sherman, Jory

  “So, Killdeer wants to get back at Rafferty,” Nels said.

  “Yeah, it’s more than the horses,” Gene said. “In fact, he wants to hurt Rafferty real bad. These horses we’re after tonight are ones Rafferty raised special and he’s right proud of ’em.”

  “What’s the breed?” Curly asked.

  “I think they’re an Arab mixed with Kentucky thoroughbreds. All sixteen hands high, four white stockings, blaze faces, and flax mane and tail. I’ve seen ’em. They’re grand horses, all right.”

  “And we’re goin’ to sell them at bargain prices to miners and loggers,” Canby said.

  “That’s Jordan’s idea of revenge,” Gene said.

  “Kind of a waste of horseflesh, you ask me,” Curly said. “If the horses are that good, Jordan should keep ’em hisself.”

  Gene blew a plume of smoke into the air and it vanished in the darkness.

  “Jordan don’t want to get caught,” Gene said. “He don’t want blood showin’ on his hands.”

  “But he gets his revenge against Rafferty,” Nels said.

  “That’s about the size of it,” Gene said. He finished his cigarette.

  “Now, from here on, you foller me,” he said. “Curly, I’ll show you where that nighthawk is and you got to get off your horse and sneak up on him. Can you do that?”

  “I reckon. You just point him out to me.”

  The three men rode on over a landscape shrouded in blackness, picking their way across a prairie where the grasses whispered against their horses’ hooves and scaled creatures crawled and slithered out of their path. A lone coyote slunk along the outer rim of their vision like some gray ghost, as silent as stone.

  Structures loomed up in the distance and Gene reined up, halting his horse. He dismounted and handed his reins to Nels.

  “Curly,” he whispered, “we go on foot from here. Nels, you wait here until I return.”

  Curly dismounted. He patted the sheath that held his knife.

  “You better pull that out,” Gene said. “You’re going to need it.”

  Curly pulled his knife from its sheath. Then he followed Gene, both crouched low, toward the dim outline of a corral. They walked slowly, each footfall as soft as they could manage.

  When they drew near to the corral, one of the horses whickered softly and they both froze and hunkered down even lower.

  They heard a rustling sound, then the scrape of a boot. The silhouette of a walking man appeared between the stables and the corral. The man reached the corral. He carried something in his hand that he held at his side. It appeared to be either a stick or a shortened rifle or sawed-off shotgun.

  “You hear somethin’, boys?” the man said in a soft tone of voice. “Coyote?”

  One of the horses whickered. Another neighed a longer phrase.

  “Settle down,” the man said and stepped away from the corral. He disappeared in the deep shadow of the stable barn but did not enter. Curly and Gene heard a board creak.

  Gene tapped Curly on the shoulder and pointed to his eyes.

  Curly nodded.

  With his hands, Gene made a circle and then pointed to the back end of the stable.

  His lips formed the word “go.”

  Curly squatted and duck-walked to the end of the corral, which he circled from about ten feet from the nearest pole. He moved slow and stopped every so often to listen.

  Gene watched as Curly moved in a straight line from the edge of the corral until he passed parallel to the back of the stable. Then Curly circled until he disappeared behind it.

  Gene waited on his haunches. His calves ached from the strain. His ankles started to hurt. He wriggled his toes inside his boots to restore some circulation to his feet.

  It was an agonizing wait. A long wait.

  Finally, Gene heard a scuffling noise. Then a rustle of cloth and a deep grunt. Finally he heard a soft thud. Moments later, a man emerged from the rectangular shadow of the stable and walked toward him. Gene recognized both the silhouette and the walk of the approaching man.

  He stood up.

  Then, he beckoned to Curly and walked slowly back to where Nels waited with their horses. Neither man said a word.

  Nels held out the reins for Curly and Gene. They took them and mounted up.

  Curly and Nels followed Gene to the corral gate. Gene dismounted and opened the gate. Nels and Curly rode inside. Several of the horses mouthed nickers and some started to circle. Nels rode up to one horse that was standing still and wrapped his arm around its neck. With his other hand he slipped a halter onto the horse and secured it. There was a rope attached to it. He led the horse out of the corral and handed the rope to Gene.

  Then Nels rode back in and flanked the farthest horse while Curly pushed his horse to herd the other horses into a bunch. Nels drove his horse into the bunch while Gene rode a few yards away, leading the haltered horse.

  The other horses trotted through the gate and followed the horse that Gene led.

  The corral was empty.

  As Gene rode across the plain with the horse under halter, Nels and Curly made sure that the others followed.

  “Good job, boys,” Gene said when they were some distance away from the ranch house.

  “Now where?” Curly asked.

  “Wild Horse Valley,” Gene said.

  The moon rose over the mountain peaks and silted the prairie with a dull silver. The grasses turned to pewter and the snowy peaks glistened with a soft white glow. Their shadows trailed behind them over gently rustling grasses as the breeze stiffened and washed across their faces.

  Curly unsheathed his bloody knife and wiped it on his trousers. The blade glistened in the moonlight, spinning sparks of pure silver.

  Nels looked over at him and grinned.

  Curly sheathed his knife and gulped in a fresh breezy air.

  Gene kept up a steady pace with the lead horse as they headed for the mountains and Wild Horse Valley.

  And there was still plenty of night left so that there was little chance anyone would notice the three men and a string of fine tall horses, their hides a bright sheen of brown in the dazzle of the moonlight.

  TWENTY

  Brad, Julio, and Wilbur Campbell made camp north of Fort Collins near dusk, nearly two days after leaving Wild Horse Valley. They had less than a hundred miles to go before they reached Cheyenne. The horses were tired after wearing their legs out coming down from out of the mountains, and the men were saddle worn and weary, as well.

  While Julio gathered dry brush and dung piles for the fire, Campbell picked up rocks and arranged them in a circle around a shallow hole he had dug with his knife and scooped out with his hands.

  “I’d say we’ve got about a two-day ride to Cheyenne,” Brad said as he hobbled the horses for the night.

  “How come we didn’t bunk in Fort Collins when we come through?” Campbell asked. “I don’t fancy sleepin’ on hard ground tonight.”

  “Towns have a way of latching onto your ankles and holding you back from your journey,” Brad replied. “You got to board your horses, grain ’em, unsaddle and saddle. Eats up time like a hog at the trough.”

  “You seem more at home in the wild places, Brad,” Campbell said. “Maybe you’re half wild.”

  Brad laughed and looked out over the prairie.

  “It’s true, in a way. Towns are trouble. Civilization is a curse. I feel more at home in the mountains or out here on the prairie.”

  “But you work for an outfit in Denver. That’s a big town.”

  “I’m just temporary there,” Brad said. “I don’t live in Denver. I can’t live in a town.”

  Julio lit the fire and the three of them gathered around it with their canteens and frugal grub, beef jerky, hardtack, and dried apples.

  “I do not like the towns, neither,” Julio
said. “You cannot breathe in a town. There is no air.”

  Brad and Wilbur laughed.

  They ate and talked as the sun set behind the Front Range. A brisk chill wind came up suddenly and fanned the fire, blowing sparks into the air and disseminating the smoke. Julio put more wood on the fire.

  They laid out their bedrolls and then sat by the fire, each with his own thoughts.

  “This place used to be black with buffalo,” Brad said. “Indians knew how to live. They followed the herds in late summer and filled their lodges with meat for the winter.”

  “A hard life,” Wilbur commented.

  “Hard, yes, but they had the whole sky above them and no landlords or fences. They roamed the plains and they summered in the mountains. It was a good enough life.”

  “You’d probably make a good Indian, Brad,” Campbell said.

  “He is a blood brother to the Ute,” Julio said.

  “Huh?” Campbell seemed surprised.

  “Long story,” Brad said. “I got bit by a sidewinder, and some Utes took me in and healed me. We traded blood. That made us brothers, in their eyes.”

  “You are a man full of surprises,” Campbell said.

  “All men are full of surprises, Wilbur,” Brad said. “You just have to look beyond the masks they put on so that they look civilized. Look at the clothes we wear. That’s part of the mask. An Indian wears skins and hides for protection, not to impress the ladies.”

  “You might have a point there. I guess I never thought of the white man that way.”

  “You could learn a lot from living with Indians,” Brad said. “They have a different view of life than we do.”

  “You stay with them Utes a long time?”

  “Long enough to admire them,” Brad said. “I don’t think they know how to lie. Not like a white man does.”

  “Aw, I can’t believe that,” Wilbur said.

  “A man who doesn’t know how to lie is like a child. Anybody can come up to him and take his candy away. A kid trusts people. When he’s growed, he’s already learned how to lie and to not trust too many folks.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Lying comes easy to many a man.”

  “And one lie begets another lie and still another until nobody knows the truth. It’s dead and buried, just like a broken promise.”

  “I guess all men are fools then,” Wilbur said.

  “Well, look at the man you work for, Jordan Killdeer. If you work for such a man, you take on his ways. It’s as natural as breathing. But sooner or later, you and him have got to pay the piper.”

  “You believe in sin, then.”

  “We’re all sinners, Wilbur,” Brad said. “And you sin a lot more in a town like Fort Collins than you do out here under the eyes of God.”

  “I’m turnin’ in,” Wilbur said. “You got me to thinkin’ and I ain’t much good at it.”

  Brad laughed. “Good night,” he said. “And sin no more.”

  Wilbur laughed at that and crawled into his bedroll and pulled the blanket up around his neck.

  “We go early,” Julio said.

  “Before sunup, Julio.”

  “Do you trust this man?” he whispered as he pointed to Campbell a few yards away.

  Brad shook his head.

  “I trust you, Julio,” he said in the same low whisper. “In fact, it’s you who is going to deliver my message to Killdeer.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You will be my emissary.”

  Julio looked puzzled. His face was half in shadow from the firelight.

  “What is emissary?” he asked.

  “Like a messenger, Julio. Un mensajero.”

  Julio nodded. “I do not like it,” he said. “But I will do it.”

  The two men said good night to each other in Spanish.

  Brad lay down under his blanket and pulled the swatch of Felicity’s nightgown from his pocket. He rolled it in the palm of his hand and clutched it to his chest before he fell asleep.

  There was no way to bring Felicity back, but the men who were responsible for her death would pay. He was the piper and they would soon have to pay him.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Brad and his two companions were back on the road before daybreak. All that day there was traffic, including two stages, some freight haulers from the south, a small herd of sheep with two Basque shepherds crossing the road on their passage to the mountains, and they saw grazing cattle and several pronghorn antelope, their hides shining tawny and white in the sun.

  They camped one more night and rode into the rail town of Cheyenne the next afternoon.

  They rode down the main street of the sprawling town that bustled with activity.

  “That there’s the Silver Queen,” Wilbur said, pointing to a false-fronted saloon in the middle of the block. “Jordan don’t go there until after sundown.”

  “Then show me where his ranch is, Wilbur,” Brad said.

  “We’ll just foller the railroad tracks and then turn east. That’s where Jordan hangs his hat. He’s got some two thousand acres.”

  They passed a hotel a few doors down from the Silver Queen. It was in a two-story frame building and looked hospitable. The name on the front read HUNTINGTON HOUSE.

  “Is that a good hotel for us to stay at?” Brad asked.

  “About the best in town,” Wilbur said. “Jordan owns that, too.”

  “Looks like he’s done all right for himself,” Brad said. “Who is Huntington?”

  “It’s just a name Jordan came up with. It ain’t nobody, far as I know.”

  They left the town behind and followed the road along the railroad tracks. They passed Mexicans with carts laden with vegetables and fruits and a few men on horseback riding into town in twos and threes.

  “Busy town,” Brad remarked.

  “Bustlin’ and thrivin’,” Wilbur said.

  Julio waved to the Mexicans who walked alongside the burros pulling their carts. They waved back and then turned their heads away from Brad and Wilbur.

  A mile or so west of town, Wilbur turned off on another road. A half mile from there, they came across a large gate connected to a board fence. There was a rustic arch over the gate with the name of the ranch in wooden letters painted red: JK RANCH.

  There were horses grazing in the pastures and a small house beyond, with a nearby barn or stable and a long, low building that looked like a bunkhouse. Smoke rose from a chimney on the bunkhouse and there was a white picket fence around the house, with flowers and small trees in the front yard.

  “That’s where Jordan lives,” Wilbur said as they halted in front of the gate.

  They saw a lone rider in the distance leading a horse toward a corral near the barn. The horse was a piebald dun and was fighting the rope all the way.

  Two saddled horses stood outside the corral, their reins wrapped around a cross pole. On the side of the house, at a hitch rail, there were four saddled horses bearing army saddles.

  “It looks like Killdeer has company,” Brad said.

  “Them two horses at the corral belong to men who work for Jordan. One is Toby Dugan. The other is Cletus Hemphill. Neither one of ’em does ranch work. They’re hired guns, and they go everywhere with Jordan.”

  “Let’s mosey back into town,” Brad said. “Maybe we’ll run into those soldiers later on.”

  “I wonder why there’s soldiers there,” Wilbur said.

  Brad turned his horse. Julio and Wilbur followed him as they rode away from the ranch.

  “Those are cavalry horses,” Brad said. “All about the same size and same color. I couldn’t see the brands, but I’m sure there’s U.S. stamped on the hides of those horses.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  Brad cut Wilbur off with a raised hand.

  “Let’s not speculate, Wilbur.
But we came at the right time. If we run into those soldier boys, we might find out why they’re meeting up with Killdeer.”

  “Yeah. We might,” Wilbur said.

  They rode back into town. They tied up their horses outside Huntington House.

  “We goin’ to bunk here tonight?” Wilbur asked.

  “No. As soon as Julio delivers my message to Killdeer, we’re heading back to Wild Horse Valley.”

  “Then why are we stoppin’ here?” Wilbur asked as Brad swung out of the saddle.

  “Information,” Brad said. He wrapped his reins around the hitch rail.

  “Do we come in with you?” Julio asked.

  “Yes. We’ll wait in the lobby and talk after I go up to the desk.”

  Wilbur and Julio slid out of their saddles and hitched their horses to the rail. The three of them entered the hotel. There were divans and chairs set around a large rug. Julio and Wilbur sat down in separate overstuffed chairs. Brad walked up to the counter where the desk clerk was standing.

  “Yes, sir, three rooms?” the clerk said.

  “Not just yet. I’m wondering if you have some cavalrymen staying here?”

  “What is your interest?” the clerk asked, suspicion in his tone.

  “I was supposed to meet up with them, but forgot to ask where they were staying. I’ve, we’ve come a long way to see them. At their request.”

  “I see. Well, yes, we have four men from Fort Laramie who checked in early this morning and are staying the night.”

  “Would that be . . .?” Brad ventured.

  The clerk picked up the ledger, opened it.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “Yes, here we are. There’s a Colonel Beacham, a Major Runnels, Captain Dade, and Lieutenant Morris. They the ones you’re supposed to meet?”

  Brad smiled a disarming smile.

  “Yes, they’re the ones. Thanks. We’ll just wait in the lobby for them, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, go right ahead. If you decide to stay the night, we have several rooms still available.”

  “Thanks,” Brad said and walked away. He sat on a divan and beckoned to Wilbur and Julio to join him.