by Ralph Cotton
“He’s gone, just what we thought,” said Sam, holstering his Colt as he stepped out the door. The two of them walked back around to the empty street.
On the street, the two lawmen stood for a moment looking toward the hotel porch a block away where Colonel Elgin and three of his men had walked out and stood looking toward them. The colonel smiled knowingly and took a seat in the big rocking chair, like a man settling himself to watch a parade. He held a thick cigar in his fingers and gave the lawmen a courteous tip of his hand.
“Sometimes I have more respect for the cutthroats and trash we deal with day to day,” Gale said quietly to the ranger as they stared at the colonel and his men.
“Yes, I know,” said Sam. “With the outlaws you know where you stand. You throw down and get it over with. Men like these step around the law every way they can. When it’s time to do their killing, they have every last detail worked down to their advantage.”
“They’re bigger than the government, these railroads and their rail barons,” said Gale, gripping the stock of his shotgun.
“These rail barons are the government, Sheriff,” Sam replied. His gaze was fixed on the colonel and his men. “Their money makes all the laws. Elgin and his thugs are the ones who enforce them.” He paused in grim consideration, then said, “That’s why men like them and us are bound to butt heads anytime we get too close.”
Chapter 20
Clay had checked on Little Dog by laying a hand gently on the small animal’s side and feeling it rise and fall slowly, painfully, Clay thought. “You’re going to be sore, but at least you’re alive,” he said down to the half-sleeping dog. “You live through this I don’t want you ever jumping on anybody again, no matter what you think they’re fixing to do to me,” he scolded quietly. “You hear me, old dog? You’re too old to be doing something like that.”
Little Dog raised his head stiffly and licked the blind man’s hand. Clay felt his cloudy eyes well up and said in a soft voice, “You always did think you was tougher than you are.” He wiped an eye. “That’s what makes you special to me. So don’t go getting yourself killed.”
Little Dog laid his head back down and drifted back to sleep. When Clay turned from the bed, he caught the sweet familiar scent of Emma Vertrees through the open window and stopped cold. Yes, it was her scent all right, no mistaking it, he told himself. Yet he found her scent wrapped within another scent. This other scent was only recently familiar to him, the smell of wood smoke from campfires, of leather, and whiskey and…dried blood. He paused. This was the scent of the man who’d left the stone-bruised dun under his care. The man hadn’t smelled of blood before, nor had he carried the scent of Emma Vertrees. But he did now, Clay told himself.
Clay walked to the door and opened it just as Memphis Beck raised his hand to knock. Beck looked surprised, his right hand resting on the Colt holstered on his hip. “What can I do for you?” Clay asked out of habit, already knowing why the man stood at his door.
“I’m here about my dun horse,” Beck asked. “How’s he doing?”
Hearing the volume of Beck’s voice change slightly as he’d spoken, Clay realized the man had been looking back and forth checking the alleyway. “He’s doing real good,” said Clay. “I expect he’s most fit to travel if you need him to.”
“Yes, I do need him,” Beck said, still cutting a glance back and forth along the alleyway. “I need him tonight.”
“Tonight?” said Clay. “You’re going to be traveling on this dark moonless night?” He realized he was being nosy, asking, but he did so anyway.
“I’m afraid so,” said Beck, only wondering mildly how the man knew there was no moon. “I have the rental horse I took. He’s standing at the hitch rail out here.”
“I know he is,” said Clay, not only having scented the animal but also having heard the roan’s deep steady breath less than fifteen feet away. “If you need a lantern, there’s one we can light for you in the barn.” He stepped out of the dark shack into the greater darkness of night.
“That will be good,” said Beck.
“So, you follow me,” said Clay, stepping over to the horse at the hitch rail.
“Where is your dog?” Beck asked, noting the absence of both Little Dog and Clay’s walking stick.
“The dog is hurt,” said Clay. “One of the posse detectives kicked him…caused me to break my walking stick too.” Unhitching the roan, Clay stopped and said, “Say, you’re not one of them posse detectives, are you?”
“No,” said Beck, “I didn’t even know there were any in town.”
Clay believed the first part—this man didn’t strike him as a detective, or as a lawman of any sort. The second part was a lie, Clay could tell by the slightest shift in the man’s voice. This man knew the detectives were in Little Aces. Why did he lie about something like that?
Being familiar with the path to the barn even without Little Dog and his walking stick, Clay led the roan and asked when he knew they were halfway through the darkness to the barn doors, “You’re acquainted with Sheriff Dillard Vertrees’ widow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am acquainted with Mrs. Vertrees,” Beck replied, wondering what he might have said to reveal such information to this man.
Clay caught the curiousness in Beck’s tone of voice, but he only smiled to himself without explaining that he had smelled the woman on him. Yes, Clay thought, he knew that the man and the woman were acquainted, and now that he’d weighed the content of the man’s voice when he’d answered, Clay also knew just how well.
“Stand still while I drop this saddle. Then I’ll get the lantern and strike it for you,” Clay said when he’d guided Beck into the pitch-darkness of the barn.
“Obliged,” said Beck, at the blind man’s mercy and knowing it.
Clay left him standing until he’d stripped the roan of saddle and bridle and given it a slap into its empty stall.
A moment later Beck heard a match scratch along the barn wall and saw the small streak of fire follow it. He watched the glow of light grow wide and brighten inside the lantern globe, reflecting in Clay’s cloudy sightless eyes.
“There, is that better for you?” Clay asked, catching a dim shadowy image for only a moment before it faded. He turned, holding the lantern out toward Beck, listening for the sound of his voice.
“Much better,” Beck replied.
“I say your dun horse is all right, but you’re the one riding him. You best take a look for yourself,” Clay offered, stepping in the direction of Beck’s voice.
Beck took the lantern, walked into the stall where the dun horse stood looking at them, and hung the lantern on a wall peg. In spite of the pain in his wounded side, Beck bent down, raised the dun’s healing foreleg, and inspected it closely. “He looks good,” he said, “and he doesn’t flinch a nerve when I press on him. You’ve taken good care of him, Mr. Clay. I’m obliged.”
“I wouldn’t put him to hard testing for a few more days if you can keep from it,” Clay cautioned.
“I won’t,” said Beck, dusting his hands together as he straightened up and lifted the lantern from the peg. Before Beck walked out of the stall, Clay heard two sounds at the same instant. He heard the front barn door open and from within the dun’s stall, the sound of Beck’s Colt slide up across the leather holster and cock.
“Hello, in there, Curtis?” Councilman Woolard called out as he stepped inside the barn and closed the door behind him. “What are you doing in here? Where is your pesky little mutt?”
“The man came for his dun horse, and brought back the roan he rented, Mr. Woolard,” Clay called out, ignoring the remark about Little Dog.
“Oh, good! I’ve been keeping a sharp eye out for you, sir,” said Woolard, stepping over and seeing only the upper half of Beck from over the stall gate. Clay knew a gun had been drawn and was now pointed at Woolard. But sensing Beck’s intensity, he decided it prudent not to say anything just now.
“Oh? Why’s that?” Beck asked, sounding wary
and a bit dangerous, in Clay’s perceptive opinion.
“I like that dun horse, sir,” said Woolard. “I told Curtis to let you know that I’m interested in trading for him. I suppose it slipped Curtis’ mind, like most things I ask him to do.” To Clay he said, “I don’t know why I put up with you, Curtis.”
Hearing the disrespect in Woolard’s voice, Beck lied quickly, “Mr. Clay mentioned it. But I have to tell you the same thing I told him, I’m not interested.”
“Oh, I see,” said the councilman. “Well, perhaps another time, that is if you’re going to be in Little Aces very long, Mr….?” He let his question troll for an answer.
“Conrad, sir,” Beck said, recalling the name of an attorney he’d once known in Chicago. But he went no further, saying nothing about how long he planned to be in Little Aces.
After an awkward second, Woolard cleard his throat and said, “I must say, Mr. Conrad, you look familiar. Have we met before?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Beck said flatly.
“Oh, well then.” Woolard dismissed the matter with the toss of a hand. Conrad indeed! Yes, he looked familiar, Woolard thought. He’d seen him arrive the other day in handcuffs! “Should you ever change your mind, I hope you’ll consider me. I’m always on the lookout out for good horses.”
“Yes, I will,” Beck said, seeing the man already back away and head for the door. “Curtis, I seem to owe you an apology this time,” Woolard said over his shoulder. “For once you did as you were told.” He gave a short chuckle and walked out the door.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Woolard,” Clay called out to the closing door. He’d noted the change and the tension in Woolard’s voice right after he’d asked if he and this man had ever met. What was that…? Clay asked himself.
Frank Skimmer stood in the dark beneath an overhang out in front of an apothecary shop across the street from Emma Vertrees’ cottage. He’d been on his way to the hotel to meet the colonel and the rest of the men for roast pork before going after the two lawmen. But vengeance mattered more to him than food. He decided to check on the cottage one more time, hoping to get a look at the widow who the bartender told him lived there.
Yesterday he’d followed the sheriff and watched him go around the side of the house and into the back door. He was becoming more convinced that this was the woman the sheriff had been referring to the night he watched the lawman wrestle with whether or not to kill him inside his cell and call it an attempted jailbreak.
Forced himself on her…? That was a damned lie, he thought, thinking back on what the sheriff had said. Ha! Not his brother, Omar. Skimmer spat and stared closely at the lamplight in the cottage window. All he needed was a little proof of any sort. He had no qualms about killing a woman, not if he knew she’d killed his brother.
When he saw Councilman Woolard hurrying along the dark street beneath the dim glow of streetlamps, he stepped out and said, “Whoa, Councilman. Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
Woolard gasped like a woman and halted. “My goodness, but you gave me a start, Mr. Skimmer!” he said. “I’m on my way to the saloon, to tell your colonel that I saw the man you’re all looking for! He’s right here, in Little Aces…under your noses!”
“Easy, now,” said Skimmer. “The colonel and the men are not at the saloon. They’re roasting pigs behind the hotel. What man are you talking about anyway?”
“The Hole-in-the-wall outlaw who rode in the other day with the ranger!” Woolard said. “I just saw him at the livery barn! I came running to tell the colonel. I always try to help the railroad any way I can!”
“That’s thoughtful of you.” Skimmer grinned. “I expect you also wouldn’t mind collecting some reward money if the colonel feels you deserve it?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” said Woolard. He started to continue on, but Skimmer caught him by the forearm.
“Memphis Beck is dead, two of our detectives shot him!”
“I dare to differ,” said Woolard. “I’m afraid they are mistaken!”
“Those lying dogs,” Skimmer growled, wondering, if they’d lied about shooting Beck, what else they had lied about. About his brother, maybe? “How long ago did you see him at the livery barn?”
“Please, unhand me, I need to see the colonel!” said Woolard.
“You’re seeing me, that’s the same thing,” said Skimmer. He gave the councilman a hard shake, his hand resting on his Colt. “How long ago, damn it! Don’t make me twist an ear off!”
“Only moments ago!” Woolard answered quickly, raising a protective hand. He had no doubt that this man would twist his ear until it ripped from his head. “I just left there and came running! Please see to it the colonel knows I delivered the information to him straightaway.”
“You bet I will,” said Skimmer, already shoving Woolard toward the livery barn in front of him. “Let’s go.”
“No, not me!” said Woolard. “I don’t want to face a man like Beck! That’s too dangerous!” He stalled in the street, but Skimmer gave him a harder shove forward.
“So is being out here on the street tonight, you idiot,” said Skimmer. “All hell is about to break loose out here.”
“It is?” Woolard looked terrified and began running along in front of the bullying gunman.
“You damn well bet it is,” said Skimmer. “Lucky for you I stopped you when I did. You’d never have made it to the saloon before somebody blew your fool head off.”
“Oh my God!” said Woolard, running in the eerie glow of streetlamps, looking back over his shoulder in terror.
At the corner where a street ran back to the livery barn, the gunman shoved him on toward the far end of town and said harshly, “Get on home, Councilman! Don’t let me catch you out tonight, or I’ll turn you into a steer!”
Chuckling to himself, satisfied that the horrified man would not show himself anymore tonight, Skimmer drew his Colt from its holster and crept along the side street quietly until he turned into the alley leading to the barn.
Before going to the barn, he slipped silently along the side of Clay’s shack, not realizing that silence wasn’t silent enough for Clay’s keen hearing. Inside, Clay sensed danger. He kept a hand lying gently on the dog’s side, hoping it wouldn’t awaken and begin to growl. When he felt the presence outside the shack had moved away in the darkness, he arose and drew the Remington from beneath his pillow. Leaning down close to Little Dog, he whispered, “Don’t you worry about me. You just get some rest.” He slipped out of the shack and made his way toward the weathered picket fence along the alley.
In the pitch-darkness, Frank Skimmer had almost walked into the side of the dark barn before realizing it was there. “Damn!” He couldn’t remember a night ever being this dark, he thought as he felt along the rough planks and found the front door of the big barn.
Inside, he struck a match and looked all around. Seeing the lantern hanging from a wall peg, he walked over and took it down, noting how hot the globe was from having only recently been extinguished. All right, he thought, lighting the lantern and looking down at the dirt floor at the fresh set of hoof marks. Now he’d find out just which direction Memphis Beck had taken.
Once he got his hands on him, Beck would tell him the truth about his brother. He’d see to it, if he had to get the information from him with a hot branding iron and a pair of wire cutters.
Following the hoofprints along the alleyway, Skimmer put out the lantern when he found the horse hitched to a tree beside the buggy. Looking around in the dark, he saw the light in a kitchen window. It took only a second to realize he had gone in a circle and now stood at the rear of the widow’s cottage.
“Well, I’ll be,” Skimmer said to himself. Leaning back against the tree, he pushed up his hat brim and smiled. Before helping the colonel and the rest of the posse take care of the sheriff and the ranger, he would take care of his unfinished business. He wasn’t sure anymore who had killed his brother; but if he killed both Memphis Beck and the widow, who else was left
? He smiled to himself.
Chapter 21
In the rear yard of the Little Aces Hotel, Roundhead carved a thick sizzling slab of meat from one of the roasting hogs. With a big two-tong fork he flung the steaming meat onto a tin plate that Jack Strap had brought over for the colonel. “Nothing like a good plate of roasted pig before a long night’s work, eh, Roundhead?” Strap said, licking hot pork grease from his thumb.
Roundhead only grunted, absorbed in basting the sizzling pig carcass above the licking flames with one hand and twirling his engraved ivory-handled Colt with the other. In the yard several of the colonel’s men sat eating from tin plates on their laps. From the rear door of the hotel, the night clerk stared out at the flames with a worried look on his face.
Walking the steaming meat over to where the colonel sat sipping whiskey straight from the bottle, Strap handed him the plate. “Roundhead says he hopes you enjoy this, Colonel,” he said.
Colonel Elgin only nodded, set the plate on his knee, and took a shot of whiskey, before capping the bottle and dropping it on the ground beside him.
Strap looked at the faces of Pale Lee, Bobby Vane, and Bloody Vlak, who sat flanking the colonel. “If you don’t mind me asking, Colonel,” Strap asked, “what’s going to be our plan of attack?”
“Plan of attack?” The colonel took a bite of the hot roast pork and spoke as he chewed. “I count we’ve got sixteen men, Strap. I plan on half of us going right to the sheriff’s office and calling the ranger and the sheriff out into the street. The rest of us will be strung out in the dark on both sides of the street.” He swallowed the meat and took another bite.
“We’ll take on some wounded that way,” Strap speculated, “maybe even lose a man or two.”
