“You’ll have to put a couple more holes in that belt so that it rides high and tight,” Joe said as he jiggled the coffeepot so that the water swirled inside.
“Yeah, Curly was bigger around the waist,” Wil said.
“He was fat,” Julio said. “Like pig.”
The others laughed.
“Yeah, he had a gut on him,” Brad said.
Joe passed out cups and when the coffee boiled, he filled them. He put more wood on the fire and sat down.
The sun rose above the horizon and sprayed beams through the pines, gilded the spruce and fir trees, set the junipers ablaze with bright light.
They sat on the log and drank their coffee. Wil, Joe, and Julio got hardtack and jerky and chewed on their food as the sun began to warm them.
“You ain’t eatin’, Brad?” Joe asked.
“I never eat before I go hunting,” Brad said.
“You’re going hunting?”
“We all are, in a way. Killdeer could get here anytime. I want to be ready for him.”
“Well, we’ve rigged the twine, and the snake box is in the wagon bed,” Joe said.
“I can’t wait to see what you’ve done.”
“One thing I was thinkin’,” Joe said. “You can just leave that tailgate down. You wouldn’t have to pull it open when Killdeer passes by the wagon. Be one less strand of twine to worry about.”
“Yeah, we could do that,” Brad said. “But, I plan to pull the gate open so that it makes a noise. If I figure right, Killdeer and his men will look over at the wagon. Then, when we open the snake box, they’ll scatter, maybe be a mite confused.”
“I see,” Joe said. “I think you’re right. When that tailgate slams down, they’ll sure hear it.”
“What happens when the snakes start crawlin’ out of the wagon?” Wilbur asked. He was using his knife to make holes in Curly’s gun belt. He put the tip of the blade on the leather at a spot where he wanted a hole, then worked it in a circular motion to puncture the belt.
“I have no idea,” Brad said, and sipped his coffee.
“I think what he means, Brad,” Joe said, “is what do we do when Killdeer and his men are distracted? Do we yell at them to surrender, or do we start shootin’?”
“Good question, Joe,” Brad said.
There was a long pause and a long silence.
“Well, you gonna answer that, Brad?” Joe asked.
“Do you think a bunch of hard cases are just going to surrender?” Brad asked.
“Well, if we all stood up and pointed our rifles at them, they might,” Joe said.
“Have you been readin’ those dime novels, Joe?”
“That would be the way I would call it,” Joe said. “Speaking as a detective, duly sworn to uphold the law.”
Brad waved an arm in a half circle in front of him.
“Look around, Joe. Do you see any law out here? Anywhere out here?”
“You know what I mean,” Joe said.
“Yeah, I know what you mean, Joe. You want everything smooth and steady. The bad men ride up, see us, see our rifles aimed at them, and then they throw up their hands and surrender. Never mind that if they did that, they’d know they were going to jail or prison and might just hang for stealing horses.”
Joe didn’t speak for several seconds. Julio and Wil looked at him, wondering what he would say.
“No, I guess they wouldn’t just give up without a fight,” Joe said. “But, you still have to make the offer. I think, anyway.”
“What offer is that, Joe?”
“Why, tell them they’re all under arrest and they should give up.”
“We could do that,” Brad said. “Might be interested to see what they would do.”
Julio’s face twisted into a wry grimace. “You give them warning,” he said, “you ask them to shoot you. That is what I think.”
“I dunno,” Wil said. “It’s right scary, you ask me.”
He cut three holes in the gun belt, stood up, and strapped it on. He had a hole to spare as he tightened the buckle on the next-to-last new hole. The belt fit tight.
“You look like a regular gunfighter,” Joe said.
“Well, I ain’t,” Wil said.
“You will shoot?” Julio asked.
“I reckon,” Wil said. “If somebody’s shootin’ at me.”
“Don’t close your eyes when you pull that trigger,” Joe said.
“I hope I don’t have to pull no trigger,” Wil said.
“Let’s get to it, boys,” Brad said. He stood up, shook out the drops of coffee still in his cup, and tossed it into Joe’s lean-to.
The others finished eating and drinking their coffee.
“Bring your canteens,” Brad said. “It might be a long, hot day. And carry your rifles with you.”
They filed out of camp and headed for the road. The sun was high in the sky and the breeze had dropped off to a whisper.
They looked like men on a death march, all in single file and silent, their heads bowed to shield their faces from the sun.
A quail piped its plaintive call from somewhere on the tabletop, and a hawk floated over the road, its head turning from side to side. A chipmunk squeaked and ran to a hole as they passed.
In the valley, a few of the horses whickered at the sight of the men walking toward them.
The only sound was the crunch of their boots on the gravel of the road.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Harry Pendergast was tired and sore from sitting in the saddle. He was in a sullen mood and not very good company for the other men who rode with him. Harry kept wiping his face with a sodden handkerchief and guzzling water from his canteen. The canteen clanked against his leg where it hung from his saddle horn, and that was another irritation.
“This blamed heat,” he said to Peter Farnsworth, who rode alongside him.
“It’s a hot one, all right,” Farnsworth said. He was one of Harry’s detectives and had been a big help when the two men interrogated Jack Trask in the Denver jail. Trask had been reluctant to give out any information until Harry made him an offer.
“If you tell us who’s behind this horse thieving ring, Trask, I promise you won’t hang.”
“Can you guarantee I won’t swing?” Trask had said.
“He can and I can,” Farnsworth had said. “We’ve already talked to the judge. If you tell us who’s the big boss, you’ll get a short sentence in jail, that’s all.”
“I got to see it in writing,” Trask said. “From the judge hisself.”
“You’ve got a deal, Jack,” Harry said. “We’ll have it here first thing in the morning.”
“I ain’t sayin’ a word until I see that judge’s signature on his official letterhead.”
“Tomorrow,” Harry said.
He and Pete had gone to see Judge Phillip Wormser that very afternoon. They were ushered into Wormser’s office by his court clerk, Timothy Evans.
Harry knew Judge Wormser well, but he had never asked him for a favor. After he and Pete were seated, the judge entered his office and sat behind his desk. He was in court at the time, which was in recess, and still wore the black robe of his office. Pete felt a trifle intimidated because Wormser was a tall man with a ruddy face and a shock of flowing gray hair. He wore expensive spectacles and was, indeed, a commanding presence.
“Make it short, Harry,” Wormser had said. “I’ve got a full docket and this is a very brief recess.”
“We are investigating a ring of horse thieves,” Harry said. “They’re very organized. We have one of the thieves in custody at the jail. But he’s a small fry and I’m after the big fish. This man knows who the boss is. We have solid evidence against him and his gang, but we’ve only managed to capture this one man.”
“So?” Wormser said, his gray-blue eyes piercing
through the glass of his spectacles.
“He’s booked on a hanging offense, Your Honor,” Harry said. “He won’t talk unless we offer him a chance to live.”
“You mean you want to have him tried on reduced charges?”
“Yes. But I need a letter from you to take to this man guaranteeing that he won’t face hanging in court.”
Wormser doubled up his fists and glared at Pete and Harry.
“The court views horse thieves as among the lowest of the low,” he said. “The court has dealt harshly with horse thieves in this country and sees no reason to change its attitude toward such criminals at this point.”
“Judge,” Harry said, “I know I’m asking a lot, but this man has valuable information that would result in the arrest of the entire gang. They are not only horse thieves but have murdered the wife of one of my agents. I want them all to hang, but this one man is the key to my uncovering the identity of their leader and perhaps all of the culprits.”
“I see,” Wormser said. “But can’t your agents find the ringleader without granting a lesser penalty to the man we have in custody?”
“They are trying, Your Honor. I have two agents out in the field, but I have not heard from them in some time. And time is precious. This involves a number of honest ranchers who have lost valuable horses to these thieves.”
The judge pulled out his watch and glanced at it. The watch was gold and so was the chain. He tucked it back in his watch pocket.
“I am reluctant to grant favors to criminals. Especially before they are deemed guilty in my court. I am further reluctant to put such a guarantee in writing.”
Wormser seemed adamant.
Tim, the judge’s secretary, came into the office.
“Five minutes, Judge,” he said, and then left.
“Your Honor,” Pendergast said, “if we don’t get the information from this man that we need, we may very well be unable to solve the case and bring the rest of the gang to justice. It is essential that we get this man’s cooperation. A great deal of money is at stake. The horse breeders are up in arms, and they wield a great deal of influence in these parts.”
Wormser leaned back in his chair. He took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he put the glasses back on.
“I see the importance of your case, Harry,” Wormser said. “I also see that losing the case, not breaking into the inner circles of the ring could have far-reaching consequences. What would the lesser charges be for this prisoner you have in custody?”
“Possession of stolen property, Judge,” Harry said quickly.
Wormser harrumphed and drew a sheet of paper out of a desk drawer. The paper bore the imprint of the court and the judge’s name. He picked up a pen from the well on his desk and began writing rapidly. When he finished signing the document, he raised it in both hands, held it level, and blew the ink dry.
“Here you are, Harry,” Wormser said. “I hope it helps you in your investigation.”
“Thank you, Judge,” Harry said. He took the paper and handled it as if were a delicate treasure. He and Pete left the office, went to the Brown Palace and had a drink in celebration.
The following morning, Harry, Pete, and Cliff Jameson rode out of town.
“This map that Trask drew for us, Harry,” Pete said, “do you think it’s accurate, or is he just sending us on a wild-goose chase?”
“I told Trask that if we did not find this ranch and this Jordan Killdeer, that the judge would rescind his order and he would hang.”
Pete looked back over his shoulder. Then he leaned over and whispered his question to Harry so the man riding behind them would not hear what he had to say.
“Did we have to bring Jameson along?” Pete said.
“Cliff might be a big help. He’s got a lot at stake in this case.”
“But he might want to take revenge when we arrest Killdeer.”
“No chance of that. Cliff wants to see that gang stand up on the gallows with ropes around their necks. I want him with us so he can look over the horses at Killdeer’s ranch and see if he recognizes any of them as being stolen from him or the members of the association.”
“All right,” Pete said. “You’re the boss, Harry.”
They rode into Cheyenne and passed the nightclub owned by Kildeer.
“Trask said he doesn’t go there until evening,” Harry said.
“I know. I heard him.”
“Let me take a look at that map that Trask drew for us, Pete.”
Farnsworth slipped the folded map from his pocket and handed it to Harry.
Cliff rode up alongside Harry.
“That the map?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I ain’t been to Cheyenne in some time, but I know about where that ranch is,” Cliff said.
“You take a look at it then, Cliff. See if we’re on the right road.”
He handed the map to Jameson.
Cliff looked at it and then at the buildings they passed, and as soon as they had reached the outskirts of Cheyenne, he nodded and handed the map back to Harry.
“This is the right way,” Cliff said.
They reached the ranch gate and halted their horses.
“Check your guns,” Harry said.
“It looks deserted,” Pete said. “I don’t see no riders, nobody tendin’ to the horses.”
“What do you think, Cliff?” Harry asked.
“It does look awful quiet.”
He saw that there were no horses in the corral. A few were grazing in a couple of pastures.
“Shall we go in?” Harry asked. “Do you recognize any of the horses, Cliff?”
“Too far away,” Cliff said.
“Well, we’ll just ride up and knock on Killdeer’s door. If he answers, we’ll arrest him.”
“I’m all for that,” Pete said. He rode up to the gate and opened it.
They rode up to the silent house. Cliff rode around the house to the stables, but he did not dismount or go in. He sat there for a few moments and listened, his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol.
“I’ll knock on the door, Pete. You be ready if he makes a move.”
Harry dismounted and walked up to the door. He rapped on it loudly.
There was no answer. He knocked again.
“Either he’s not home or he’s hiding,” Harry said.
“Man don’t have no maid, no hands out workin’. I’d say he ain’t here.”
“I think you’re right, Pete.”
Harry walked to his horse and stepped into the stirrup as he gripped the saddle horn. He pulled himself up into the saddle. Then he and Pete rode around to where Cliff was waiting.
“Anybody home?” Cliff said.
“Nope,” Pete said.
“Let’s ride out and look over those horses in those two pastures,” Harry said. “But keep your eyes open in case somebody was in that house and decides to chase us off.”
They rode out and opened the gate to the first pasture. Harry and Pete waited outside the fence while Cliff rode up to look at the horses and check their brands.
“Nothing here,” he said. “Horses have the Killdeer brand on ’em. And they ain’t been altered with a runnin’ iron neither.”
Cliff checked the horses in the other pasture with the same results. No altered brands, no stolen horses.
“Well, I’m disappointed that Killdeer isn’t here,” Harry said. “I wonder if he’s at the Silver Queen.”
“We could find out real easy,” Pete said. “And wet our whistles at the same time.”
“A wasted trip,” Harry said.
“Looks like,” Pete said.
“Well, you found out something anyway,” Cliff said. “He ain’t keepin’ any of the stolen horses on this spread.”
“I wonder what he does, or did, with all the horses he stole,” Harry said.
Pete shrugged and Cliff said, “When we find out, we’ll have him where we want him.”
But Harry was dejected. He realized now that he had made a bad bargain with Jack Trask. Jack had directed them to Killdeer’s ranch, but Killdeer was gone.
He wondered, as they rode back into Cheyenne, if Joe Blaine and Brad Storm might have lured Killdeer away from his ranch. Maybe, he thought, they might even have him in custody by now, along with the rest of his gang.
Then there was the alternative, which he did not want to think about.
Brad and Joe might both be dead.
He pushed the thought aside, but it nestled in the back of his mind like a rat in its hole just waiting to sneak into a kitchen after dark.
THIRTY-NINE
As Jordan Killdeer led his men into the mountains, past Lookout, he felt as if he were coming home. He felt that same strong tug he had known as a young boy, when he had lived there with the Arapaho. He had been captured in Oklahoma by Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors when he was ten years old.
He had been told by his parents and the elders of his tribe that if he was captured, he would be tortured and made into a slave. Neither had happened to him. When the tribes returned to the north, with many ponies, he had been adopted into the Arapaho tribe and they had made him into one of their own. He rode and hunted with young boys his own age and they had given him the name of Kills Deer because of his prowess with a bow and arrow. When he had rejoined the white race, he kept his given name, Jordan, and shortened his Arapaho name from Kills Deer to Killdeer.
He had kept his childhood a secret from all, and had listened to the patois of cowboys so that he could imitate their speech until it became second nature to him. The Arapaho had taught him much, but the main inheritance he had gained from them was the value they had put on horses. That stayed with him, so he had learned from the white man how to acquire and breed good horses. This love of horses had shaped his life to the point where he sought wealth not only in the breeding of fine horses but also in illegal ways to acquire them and sell them to miners, prospectors, and lumberjacks for a quick profit. He saw nothing wrong in this practice because he had been on many raids with both the Arapaho and Cheyenne when they raided other tribes and white men for horses and ponies.
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