by Jory Sherman
“Two questions, Larry, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“I can handle two, maybe.”
“The name of that jasper at the other end of the bar with his hand inside that lady’s blouse.”
Larry turned his head and looked.
“That’s Wicks. Abner Wicks. He’s one of Delbert’s men.”
“Where’s the sheriff’s office these days?”
“Middle of State Street.”
“His name?”
“That’s one question over the limit, friend.” There was a sardonic smile on Larry’s face.
“I owe you, Larry.”
“Our new sheriff, still slightly wet behind the ears, is Rodney Dimsdale.”
“Thanks,” Brad said, standing up. He looked at Julio. “Let’s go, Julio. We’re going to get Tico back for Carlos.”
Julio slid from his stool.
“You didn’t finish your beers, gents,” Larry said. “And, say, I didn’t get your name, Mister.”
“I didn’t give it, Larry. But you can call me Sidewinder for now.”
“Sidewinder? That your real name?”
Brad didn’t answer. He and Julio were already walking briskly down to the other end of the bar.
“What we do, Brad?” Julio whispered.
“Just back me up, Julio. We’re going to do a little horse trading.”
“You give me the confusion sometimes, Brad.”
“I confuse myself sometimes, Julio.”
Brad stepped close to the man named Abner Wicks.
“Sir,” he said, “may I have a word with you?”
Wicks turned around, saw the two men standing there, one of them a Mexican. He had the feeling he should know them.
“What’s on your mind, stranger?”
“I wondered if you wanted to sell that bobtailed dun with the cropped mane you have hitched outside.”
“Huh?”
“I’m buying,” Brad said.
“I ain’t sellin’,” Wicks said.
“Well, I’m taking the horse, Wicks,” Brad said.
Abner’s hand shot off the girl’s shoulder and dropped to the butt of his pistol.
“You what?” Abner said, his tone sharp as a razor’s honed edge.
“You heard me, Wicks.”
“How’d you know my name?”
“Why, I picked it out of the pig slop, Wicks.”
“Them’s fightin’ words, Mister.”
“You pull that hogleg, Wicks, and I’ll drop you where you stand. There’s two of us and just one of you.”
Brad kept his voice low so that only Julio, the glitter gal, and Wicks could hear him. But Abner saw Brad’s hand hovering over the butt of his pistol like a hawk about to fold its wings and dive.
“You put it that way . . .” he said.
“Let’s just step outside and take a look at that bobtailed dun, Wicks. Lady, you better light a shuck to other parts.”
The woman scurried away, white-faced, her skirt rustling like wind through a cornfield.
“Step away from the bar and go through those batwings, Wicks. We’ll be right behind you.”
“You got a lot of cheek, Mister,” Wicks said.
But he went out the swinging doors and walked to where Tico stood hipshot.
“Take a look at that brand, Wicks,” Brad said. He pointed to the horse’s right rump. “That’s the Box B from the Baron ranch in Texas. I bought that horse from Anson Baron himself. I’ve got the papers.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Wicks said.
“Well, let me put it this way, Wicks. That makes you a horse thief. And that’s a hanging offense.”
Wicks blanched.
“Take Tico, Julio, and follow me and Mr. Wicks.”
“Where we goin’?” Wicks asked.
Brad stepped forward and lifted the pistol from Abner’s holster and held it leveled at Abner’s gut.
“We’re going to pay a call on Sheriff Dimsdale,” Brad said. “Now, step out.”
“Bastard,” Wicks muttered, but started marching toward State Street. Julio followed, leading Tico.
The sheriff was in.
He looked up from his desk when Brad ushered Wicks through the door.
The man sitting behind the desk wore a star on his chest. There were three other men in the room: a young deputy, who also wore a badge; a man in a business suit with a hand-painted tie dangling from his collar; and another man, younger, who was dressed like a banker, minus the coat. They all stared intently at Brad and Wicks.
“What do we have here?” Dimsdale said. He was a balding, forty-year-old man with carious teeth and a pock-marked face that looked weathered from more than wind but was likely from a steady diet of corn whiskey. He wore red suspenders and a striped shirt, baggy pants with food stains embedded in the light fabric. He had a small button of a nose that looked like a mashed mushroom.
“You know Abner Wicks here, Sheriff?” Brad said.
“Don’t know him well. Know who he is. That his pistol in your hand?”
“It is.”
“Well, now, I’ll just have that, and your name and some quick explanation,” Dimsdale said.
Brad handed him the Colt, butt first. Dimsdale took it, opened a drawer, and stuck the gun inside.
“My name’s Bradley Storm, and this man stole my horse, that bobtailed dun out there with the Mexican.”
“Got proof?”
“No. Just my word. I also want to charge him with cattle rustling and destruction of property. My property. My cattle.”
“No proof, you say.” Dimsdale looked over at the man in the business suit. He had long sideburns salted with gray hairs, a neatly trimmed mustache, and small goatee. He wore a vest with a watch chain dangling from one pocket. His coat was open and the lining appeared to be made of painted silk. He returned Dimsdale’s look with a nod.
“This feller and others, including two brothers named Coombs, not only stole two hundred head of cattle, but burned down my house, two bunkhouses, and my barn. So, I have no proof of anything. They picked me clean and burned all my proof.”
“What’s your name again?” Dimsdale asked.
“Storm. Brad Storm.”
“Well, Mr. Storm, I might be able to help you. Might, I said, just might.” He looked over at the young man who was wearing a smaller star than his and spoke to him. “Wally, you take Wicks here and put him in cell one.”
“We only got one cell,” Wally said, rising from his rickety chair.
“Then, that’s the one.”
Wally Culver grabbed Wicks’s arm and led him across the room to a closed door. He opened the door and the two disappeared after he closed it behind him. Brad heard the jingling of keys and the slam of an iron door.
“You’ll charge Wicks with horse thieving, cattle rustling, arson, and kidnapping?” Brad asked.
“Who’d he kidnap?” Dimsdale asked.
“My wife and the wife of that man outside with the dun horse.”
Again Dimsdale looked over at the man in the business suit.
“Well, now, not so fast, Mr. Storm. First, I want you to meet a man who might be interested in hearing your story.”
The man in the business suit got up from his chair, walked over to stand next to Brad. The man looked Brad up and down with keen gray eyes. He stroked his goatee a couple of times.
“Storm, this is Mr. Harry Pendergast. He’s head of the Denver Detective Agency. Just rode into town.”
Pendergast held out his hand. Brad shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Storm. I’d like you to meet one of my agents. Pete, come over here.”
The other man got up and shook Brad’s hand. “This is Pete Farnsworth. He’s been staying here in Oro . . . I mean Oro City, for the past several months. I’d like to buy you a meal or a drink and discuss your case with you, sir.”
Brad looked at the sheriff.
“He can do more for you than I can, Storm,” Dimsdale said. “I’ll hold
Wicks as long as I can.”
“Come with us, Mr. Storm,” Pendergast said. “And bring your friend out there with us if you like.”
Before he could unravel all his thoughts, Brad found himself walking outside with Pendergast and Farnsworth.
“We’ll go to the Clarendon,” Pendergast said. “I’m staying there while I’m in town. I have a proposition for you, Mr. Storm. And who is this?”
“Mr. Pendergast, this is Julio Aragon, my friend and a hand on my ranch. Julio, this is Harry Pendergast and Pete Farnsworth.”
The men shook hands.
“Tie up Tico and come with us, Julio. Mr. Pendergast is going to buy us lunch.”
“You look like you both could stand a meal, Mr. Storm,” Pendergast said. “And I hope you’ve got some useful information for me and Pete.”
“Useful, maybe. But, will you use it?”
“If it concerns Delbert Coombs and his brother, Hiram, I’ll not only use it, I’ll pay good money for it. That suit you, Mr. Storm?”
They walked the short distance to the Clarendon Hotel.
But not once did Pendergast bring up the name of Delbert Coombs, rustling, arson, or kidnapping. Instead, he talked about how Denver was growing and the salubrious climate of the Rocky Mountains.
Brad wondered if he’d acquired a pig in the poke without paying out a cent. Behind him, he heard Pete and Julio conversing in Spanish. But Pete wasn’t touching on any recent incidents concerning them either. They were talking about the Catholic Church, the Alamo, General Santa Anna, Maximilian, and the Mexican Revolution.
They entered the hotel and walked straight to the dining room. Pendergast was met by the headwaiter, who knew him, and they were ushered to a private corner where they sat down amid potted palms and live prickly pear cactus growing in clay vessels.
“I’ll order for all of us,” Pendergast said, then turned to Brad.
“Mr. Storm,” he said, “do you have any feelings about justice, regardless of the law?”
Brad was taken aback by the question.
He noted the smile on Pendergast’s face, but it was a meaningless smile without warmth, without commitment.
The smile looked as if it had been painted there by some diabolical prankster and then shellacked over to last a thousand maddening years.
TWENTY-NINE
Pete Farnsworth, Julio Aragon, and Harry Pendergast all looked straight at Brad, waiting for his answer to Pendergast’s question.
Brad felt the scrutiny and pondered his answer. He wondered if it was a trick question. But, no, it was straight enough. Just unusual. He decided that Pendergast asked it to test him, his morals, his judgment, and perhaps, his intelligence.
He looked at Julio, whose eyes brightened.
“The Mexicans have a saying,” Brad said, “that I first heard from my friend, Julio. And Julio is a very wise man. The Mexicans say, ‘No hay justicía en el mundo.’ In other words, there’s no such thing as justice in this world.
“But, there is revenge and retribution. People say they want justice, but most of the time they just want blood.”
“And what about the law, Mr. Storm?” Pendergast said.
“Which one? The written law? Those laws are for the judges, juries, and lawyers. Where there is no law or when the law fails, a man must make his own law. If he truly wants justice, he might go to the law first. If he does not get justice, then he must make a decision.”
There was a momentary silence.
Brad’s eyes bore right into Pendergast’s.
“And, the decision?” Pendergast said.
“A man might have to take the law into his own hands, Mr. Pendergast. If there is no justice in the world, then that’s a downright shame. If the law does not hand out justice and justice is cried for by a righteous man, then that man must seek justice.”
“Any way he can?”
“Any way he can.”
“Then there is justice in the world,” Pendergast said.
“It’s a question of interpretation, even with the law. Is justice the same for a rich man as it is for a poor man? Is justice the same for a landowner as it is for a share-cropper?”
“Umm, Mr. Storm, I think not,” Pendergast said.
“Now, you tell me, sir, why would you ask me such a question? Surely you know that I’m not a lawman or a judge, and I’ve never sat on a jury. You got something in your craw, and that question tells me you’ve been chewing on it for quite some time.”
Again, a breathless pause that lasted but a few seconds.
Pete Farnsworth cleared his throat. Pendergast picked up a napkin and tucked it into his collar like a bib.
“I think Julio and I will wash up, Mr. Pendergast,” Brad said, scooting back in his chair. “Come on, Julio. Let’s find the washroom.”
“In the lobby,” Pendergast said. “Just look for a sign that says Gents.”
“Much obliged,” Brad said. He and Julio walked across the dining room and into the hotel lobby.
“What do you think, Pete?” Pendergast said.
“I think you’ve found your man, Harry. Del Coombs is one smart man. He gave me the slip. I completely missed this one.”
“How can you not have known, Pete? Honestly.”
“Del’s slicker than an electric eel. He has eyes in the back of his head. He’s a magician. Hell, I don’t know. He and his bunch left town and hit Storm without anybody even knowing they were gone.”
“So, what do we do with Storm? How can we use him?”
“Let’s hear what he has to say about the rustling. What puzzles me is not only why he’s still alive, but how he caught Abner Wicks red-handed with that stolen horse.”
“Yes, that was impressive, I must say.” Pendergast twisted the tip of his goatee, then fluffed it back into its regular shape. “That’s one out of the way for now.”
“Five to go.”
The waiter was serving the meal when Brad and Julio returned, their faces no longer dusty, but clean except for beard stubble, their hands no longer dark and grimy or clotted with sweat and sand. They sat down.
“Bistec,” Julio said, looking at his plate.
“Those are top sirloins, gentlemen,” Pendergast said, “and might be from your own herd.”
Brad hesitated just a minute before cutting his steak with a knife, holding the meat down with his fork. There were boiled potatoes, pinto beans, halved pears in small bowls, and sautéed mushrooms.
“Probably not poisonous, then,” Brad said. Everyone at the table laughed.
He chewed the first piece and smacked his lips.
“Yep,” he said, “finest beef in the territory.”
“You have a remarkable sense of humor, Mr. Storm,” Pendergast said.
“Call me Brad, will you, Mr. Pendergast? I keep looking around for my father every time you call me mister.”
“Then call me Harry.” Pendergast flashed a wide smile and brought a glass of water to his lips.
“All right, Harry. You’re a detective from Denver. You don’t give a damn about a horse thief like Wicks. So, what brings you to Oro City?”
“Oh, but I do care about Wicks, Brad. In fact, I’m glad to have him locked up, even if he’s in the custody of Sheriff Dimwit.”
“I thought his name was Dimsdale.”
Pete laughed.
“He’s Dimwit to us,” he said. “Scared to death of the Coombs brothers, like everybody else in town, and about as brave as a bunny rabbit.”
“I’d hate to see Wicks get away from him,” Brad said.
“Count on it,” Pete said. “He’ll set bail for Wicks, and Wicks will get out. After that, Brad, you’re a marked man. Those boys will hunt you down and shoot you deader’n last month’s Denver Post. Coombs doesn’t let witnesses live very long. In fact, in his eyes, you’re already an old man sitting on his deathbed.”
“I know,” Brad said.
“You do?” Pendergast said. “How in the devil did you manage to stay alive and yet .
. . ?”
Brad interrupted him. He told him how he and Julio had been gone, hunting, he said, and what they found when they got back. He told him about tracking his herd, the switching of horses, and how he’d gotten Wicks.
“I’m impressed,” Pendergast said. “But how do you know about the Coombs boys, leaving no witnesses.”
“I figure these men, these criminals, have done this before. One day Julio and I were chasing after some strays and came upon the burned remains of the Seguin house. Julio told me the story.”
“So you know about Alberto Seguin, do you?”
“A little. Why?”
“Do you know who was killed when he rustled Alberto’s cattle?”
“Why, his wife and kids, I reckon.”
“And there was a white boy who stayed with them,” Julio said.
“Do you know the boy’s name, Julio?” Pendergast asked.
“No. I never hear it.”
“There was a boy staying with Alberto and his wife that spring and summer,” Pendergast said. “He was fourteen years old, had curly brown hair, a winning smile. He was eager to learn about cattle ranching. That boy had big dreams. He was from Denver. His bones are buried in a cemetery there alongside his mother, who died of grief shortly after that boy was murdered.”
“You seem to know a lot about him, Harry,” Brad said. He bit into a piece of pear he had spooned out of his bowl.
Pete cleared his throat again. Pendergast’s face turned the color of a Wyoming sunset. He dabbed at his mouth with the corner of his napkin. There were tears in his eyes.
“That boy was my son, Brad. His name was Randolph. We called him Randy. He was my only son, and I’ve been trying to bring his murderers to justice for some years now. That’s why Pete is down here. It took me some time to put Delbert Coombs’s operation together. In fact, that’s why I formed the Denver Detective Agency. I wanted some law, some legal backing, to go after Coombs and his bunch.”
Brad and Julio stopped eating. They both stared at Pendergast. Both saw the tears welling up in his eyes.
