by Ralph Cotton
“What kind of problem?” he asked.
Sheriff Gale gave a half shrug, but Sam knew it wasn’t a matter the sheriff took lightly. “He thinks I had something to do with his brother’s death. His brother had been missing a few days, his horse stood starving out front of the saloon. Two of Elgin’s trail scouts brought the brother’s body into town, swore they shot Memphis Beck when they caught him robbing and killing the man out on the trail. Still, Frank Skimmer has it set in his head that I either killed him or had something to do with it. I keep hoping he’ll turn the notion loose. But so far he hasn’t done it.”
“They’re saying they caught Beck robbing and killing the man?” Sam asked curiously.
“They’re swearing to it,” said Gale. “I don’t know what else Skimmer needs to hear to convince him I had no hand in it.”
“If they shot Beck, where is he?” Sam asked. “Why didn’t they bring him in?”
“In my opinion they were scared to track him down, the way some men won’t track down a wounded mountain cat,” said Gale. “They came back here to get the rest of the posse, and their photographer, of course,” he added with a tone of contempt. “The colonel wanted to string Beck up and get a photo for the railroads.”
“So hunting Beck is what they were doing up there yesterday,” said Sam, putting it together. “They didn’t find Beck, so they decided to stampede my prisoners instead.”
“This is a bad, dangerous bunch, Ranger,” Gale said, shaking his head. “I ain’t sure you threatening to contact the railroad is the wise thing to do.”
Sam just stared at him for a moment until the sheriff got the idea. “Oh, I see,” Gale said, “you’re not concerned with contacting the railroads right now.”
“They hanged my prisoners,” Sam repeated, this time in a stronger tone.
Gale nodded. “I’d feel the same way. The colonel’s posse has to spill enough blood to keep the railroads happy. I reckon at a point it doesn’t matter whose blood it is.”
“My prisoners were Hole-in-the-wall men,” said Sam. “But they’d only ridden with the gang a short while. They were wanted for murder in Arizona Territory. That was my only interest in them. Had I taken them back for trial, they would’ve more than likely swung for murder. But it would have all been done proper. They would have had a fair trial. The colonel hanged them for robbery…most likely for robberies he couldn’t ever have proven in a court of law. I take a man prisoner he’s under my protection until I turn him over to the circuit court. I can’t abide men getting killed under my watch.”
“Me neither,” Gale agreed. “These tin badges get heavier every day, don’t they?” he offered, thinking about what Sam had said. “Sometimes I think mine is going to rip my shirt pocket off.” He gave a tired smile.
Sam nodded in agreement. After a sip of coffee and a moment of consideration, he went on to say, “Robbing and killing a man doesn’t sound like Memphis Beck’s kind of work. It sounds more like something Colonel Elgin and his detectives set up just to get New Mexico Territory after Memphis Beck.”
Gale seemed to consider it, but Sam could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew more about the situation than he was telling. “I don’t know,” said Gale, “but whatever the case, if Skimmer doesn’t ease up I’ll be having to face him again in the street. And Frank Skimmer is not the kind of man I want to face again in the street.”
Sam knew this was as close as the sheriff could come to asking him for help. He also knew that Gale didn’t want to hear him say he’d stand up with him against Frank Skimmer. Lawmen didn’t have to say the words, Sam reminded himself. “I have a hunch we’ll both be hearing from the colonel’s men shortly,” he said. “Frank Skimmer is just one gun on their side. If he stands with the posse, he falls with them.”
“I understand,” Gale said with resolve, realizing that whatever the situation, from here on, the ranger had just told him they’d stand together. As for who killed Omar, he and Emma were free and clear. But Frank Skimmer was another matter. If he had to face the man, he at least had a better chance with the ranger on his side.
“When are you going after him?” Sam asked, catching Gale by surprise.
“Who?” said Gale.
“Memphis Beck,” said Sam. “If he killed someone inside your jurisdiction, I figure you’ll be wanting to bring him in.” He’d only asked in order to hear what kind of response Gale would give him.
“I—I don’t know that I will,” said Gale. “At least not any time soon.” He nodded toward the window. “Not with the trouble we’ve got brewing here.”
Good enough answer, the ranger thought, still feeing the sheriff knew more than he was telling.
Out in front of the hotel, surrounded by his men, his coffee cup and cigar still in hand, Colonel Elgin saw Frank Skimmer walking toward them from the Little Aces Saloon. When Skimmer drew close enough, the colonel said stiffly, “So glad you could join us today, Frank. We just about had a shoot-out with your friend and mine, Ranger Sam Burrack.”
“I had some things to take care of,” Skimmer said.
“Oh, I see….” Colonel Elgin stared coldly at Skimmer and said, “I suppose all is well at the saloon this morning?”
Frank’s face reddened. “I wasn’t at the saloon,” he said, his voice also testy and stiff. “Not to drink, anyway.”
“Oh? Why, then?” the colonel asked, already knowing it had something to do with finding out more about his dead brother.
“The bartender there told me that the sheriff is stuck on a woman who lives in a house across the street back there.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “It’s the little white house that sits back off the street. She’s the widow of the man who used to be sheriff here.”
The colonel stared at him. “I thought I told you to let it go. This thing the sheriff told you about your brother might have been just what he said it was, an example…a just suppose…a what-if!”
“He’s hiding something, Colonel,” said Skimmer. “I’ve got to find out, for my dead brother’s sake.”
“Look at me, Frank,” said the colonel. “I’m not hiding anything.” He stepped in closer. “If you’re going to ride with this posse, you’re going to have to put everything else away and give us your best.”
“You’re getting my best, Colonel,” Skimmer said firmly without giving an inch. “I’m here now, what is it you want me to do?”
The colonel put the matter aside and took a deep breath. To the rest of the men gathered around he said in a raised voice, “All of you go back inside, have another cup of coffee.”
The men looked at one another and began drifting back in through the hotel door. But the colonel stopped Pale Lee, Jack Strap, and Bobby Vane. “You three, come here. We all need to talk.”
When the three gathered around the colonel and Frank Skimmer, the colonel said in a lowered voice to Vane, Strap, and Hodges, “You three saw what happened here. The ranger is getting in our way too damn much.” He glanced at Frank and said to all four of them, “Burrack has to be stopped, else we’re going to stumble over him and his judgment every move we make out here. Do I make myself plain enough on that?”
The four men nodded.
“You four are my best gunmen,” he said, “so you’re the only ones I’m telling this to. Burrack just laid it out clearly for us. He’s spoiling for a fight, over us hanging those two vermin. The only way we’re ever going to quit having his nose in our business is to kill him.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Skimmer.
The colonel looked at Frank. “I want you to get your mind on business. I’m offering a thousand dollars to the man who takes the ranger down, and five hundred dollars to whoever helps him do it.”
“What about the sheriff, if he gets in our way, or sides with Burrack?” Skimmer asked.
The colonel saw that Skimmer still had vengeance in mind. “You better listen to me closely, Frank. I want this town to fall under a bad plague of violence. When it does, these folk will qui
t caring what happens to their sheriff. They’ll be glad to get rid of him when he fails to keep the peace. We’ve got to press this town hard enough that everybody will keep off the streets and out of the way for a while. We don’t need a town full of do-gooders witnessing what we do, now, do we?”
“The less witnesses the better, I always say,” Jack Strap put in.
“In other words, you want us to hurrah Little Aces every way we can think of?” Bobby Vane asked.
“No, Bobby, not in other words,” said the colonel, his smile widening, “but in those words exactly.”
Jack Strap grinned. “This is starting to sound like Statler all over again. I don’t know about the rest of you fellows, but I can stand some more of that kind of excitement.”
“Turn this town on its ear the way we all did in Statler,” said the colonel, and I promise additional bonuses for all of you.”
“I’ll tell Roundhead, right away,” said Bobby Vane. “He loves a lively gathering. He’s always happy to roast up a pig or two, open-pit style!” He smiled, his hand on his gun butt, his fingers tapping nervously.
“Yes, do that, Bobby,” said the colonel. To the others he said, “Have some of the men start making rounds to the businesses. Tell them to find some reasons to bust up a couple of places. Get everybody worried, make them want to close their doors and duck down.”
“And stay down until this big bad ole railroad posse leaves town,” Skimmer said, thinking about the sheriff, the ranger, his dead brother, and the vengeance he felt he had coming.
“Yes, that’s the spirit.” Colonel Elgin tossed the rest of his coffee from the mug and turned toward the hotel door. “Start a tab for us at the saloon, run it up high…tell them the railroads are paying for everything.” He stopped long enough to look over his shoulder at the four men still standing in the dirt street. “Well, gentlemen, what are all of you waiting for? Turn hell loose on Little Aces.”
Chapter 18
Curtis Clay had spent the night in a troubled sleep and awakened with a troubled mind. By noon he still had not shaken off the feeling of something bad looming ahead, either something directed at him, or someone near him…or even at the town itself, he’d decided.
The feeling seemed to have started coming upon him at about the time he’d caught the scent of blood the day before. He wasn’t sure that the scent had anything to do with it, but whatever it was, he’d felt troubled enough that he’d turned away two cowboys who’d ridden into Little Aces at daybreak just to try their hand at beating him in assembling their range Colts.
As badly as he’d hated to turn down the money, Clay had refused to even answer their knock on the door of his shack. When they’d given up and left, he’d even taken his big Remington from behind his rope belt and left it on the table inside the shack, before walking to the saloon. A bad feeling was cause enough to not carry a gun, he’d thought.
Feeling edgy and anxious, he’d picked up his walking stick and followed Little Dog out and along the alleyway behind Emma’s cottage. In the stretch of alleyway along the weathered picket fence, he once again caught the scent of blood on the air. This time it was not the crisp scent of fresh blood he smelled. This time it was the faint rank and coppery smell of old blood.
Healing blood, he thought, not turning his face toward the cottage, although it would have made no difference if he had. Instead he walked on, wishing that his troubled feeling had nothing to do with the woman, in spite of a wary voice inside that told him it did.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Clay said to the small stiffly walking canine. He tapped his walking stick close behind the purposeful animal. “You’re thinking a nosy old fool ought to mind his own business. But I said we’d look after her, and we will, Little Dog, so long as she needs us to.”
Clay walked on, taking the long way around, past the Vertrees cottage before turning out to the main street, counting each step with deft familiarity, hearing the dog’s small, soft footsteps in front of him….
On the boardwalk out in front of the mercantile store on the wide main street, two of the newer detectives, a Montana gunman named Joe Graft and a wild-eyed young Texas hired killer named Fletus Belton, lounged in boredom on a long wooden bench. Roundhead Mitchell and another more seasoned detective named Mike “the Fist” Holland had gone inside with a surly, demanding attitude, following the colonel’s orders to set the town on its ear.
The mercantile owner, Woodrow Hayes, had seen a marked change in the detectives’ demeanors as soon as they stepped through his door. Only three days ago the same two had been at the counter purchasing ammunition. They had courteously paid him and left. Today was different. Seeing the way the two eyed his wife hungrily, he’d immediately given her a nod gesturing her to the stockroom.
“Will that be all, gentlemen?” Woodrow asked, keeping his voice steady in spite of seeing these men appear to be looking for trouble of some sort.
“More pepper,” Roundhead said coldly, a tin of pepper sitting on the counter in front of him. “I told you I needed lots of pepper, you gave me one damn tin?” He appeared irritated.
“My apologies, sir!” Woodrow hurriedly turned and reached onto a shelf behind the counter. He took down two more tins of pepper and stood them beside the first. Smiling nervously, he said in an attempt at civility, “My, but that’s a lot of pepper. What are you preparing, if I might ask.”
“No, you may not,” Roundhead said, his eyes going from the counter to a glass-encased display of handguns.
“He’s roasting us up a damn pig,” Mike the Fist answered, giving him a hard stare. He leaned over the polished counter toward Woodrow. “Be careful it don’t wind up being you.”
“Oh my,” said Woodrow, trying to keep his smile and play the words off as a joke.
But the Fist would have none of it. “Did I say something funny?” he asked bristly, leering at the nervous store owner.
“Oh no, sir, that is—” Woodrow didn’t know what to say. His smile vanished quickly.
“Hand me that gun,” Roundhead demanded, his thick finger pointing down atop the glass case at a finely engraved Colt with shiny white ivory handles. “How much is it?” he asked impatiently as Woodrow scrambled to open the case.
“Well, it’s—” Woodrow stopped and tried to regain his rattled composure. “The thing is, I haven’t really priced this one. As you see it’s quite ornate, and, well, frankly, more of a showpiece. It’s not the most practical gun for carrying holstered. It’s more the sort of gun a store owner like myself—”
“Hand me the damned gun!” Roundhead demanded in an abusive tone, rudely cutting the worried-looking store owner off.
“Yes, of course,” said Woodrow. He reached into the case, took out the big Colt, and handed it over. “But like I said, I really haven’t priced it. I didn’t really think anyone would be—”
“How much?” Roundhead said, jerking the cylinder open as he inspected the gun.
“Sir, if you would like to look at one of the other guns. Perhaps you’d—”
“He doesn’t want to sell you the gun, Roundhead,” Mike the Fist chuckled darkly.
Thumbing bullets from his belt and shoving them into the open cylinder, Roundhead asked as he clicked the cylinder shut, spun it, stopped it, and cocked it in the general direction of the store owner. “How much?” he demanded with finality.
“How about sixty-five dollars, because of its engraving, the ivory handles—”
“Too much,” Roundhead said, still cutting him off rudely.
“It’s quite a showpiece,” Woodrow said, still trying to maintain a businesslike manner.
“How much are the others?” Roundhead asked, letting the hammer down by pulling the trigger recklessly and catching the hammer with his thumb.
“From sev—seventeen dollars to twenty-eight dollars,” he managed to say, his nerves shattered by Roundhead’s careless gun handling.
“I’ll take it, for seventeen,” Roundhead said, giving a him threateni
ng stare.
“Oh, sir, I couldn’t possibly—” This time Roundhead didn’t cut him off. But seeing the big detective get set to cock the hammer again, he stopped short.
“You know if you’re one of the good customers here, Roundhead,” the Fist said, grinning cruelly, “you wouldn’t have to pay for it today. He’d keep it on a bill for you, right, storekeeper?”
Before Woodrow could answer, Roundhead said in a bullying tone, “What? I’m not a good customer? I was here the other day. I’m the one who bought all that ammunition. Now you’re telling me I’m not a good customer?” He cocked the gun again.
“Please, gentlemen,” Woodrow pleaded with his hands spread, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Do you hear that? Now he says he doesn’t want any trouble,” Roundhead said flatly, “after insulting me that way.”
“Yeah, he says it,” said the Fist, “but I’m not sure he means it, are you?”
Out in front of the mercantile store, Joe Graft looked toward the end of the boardwalk where Curtis Clay stepped up from the alleyway, tapping the dirt-crusted oak planks with his walking stick.
“What the hell have we got coming here?” Graft laughed, drawing Fletus’ attention away from twirling his Colt Thunderer on his trigger finger.
Fletus Belton stopped twirling his gun and pushed up his battered hat brim. “That old dog looks like he’s been dead longer than most dogs have been alive.”
Curtis heard their voices but gave no sign of it as he tapped forward. “Watch this,” Graft whispered sidelong to Belton. He stretched his legs out and crossed his boots in the path of the dog and the blind man.
Trip a blind man…? Belton gave him a disbelieving look, but watched without saying a word.
Having heard the boots slide out on the boardwalk, Clay stopped short, then followed the sound of Little Dog’s tapping nails as the elderly dog swung wide around the boots and continued on.
Belton laughed at Graft under his breath, watching the blind man and the dog pass them by. “What the hell?” Belton said, embarrassed that his crude nasty trick hadn’t worked. “That old turd’s not blind!” he said, coming up from the bench and hurrying over alongside Clay. “Hey, you!” he said, fanning his hand back and forth in front of Clay’s eyes.
