by Chuck Tyrell
McCabe puffed twice, then shrugged. “I wish to the Good Lord that we knew.”
“Where’d this Hershey say he was staying?” Stryker wiped the tears from his face with a blue bandana.
“It runs in my mind that he mentioned the Royal.”
“Come on, Matt. This poor excuse for a boss ain’t got nothing we can use,” Carpenter said. He waved a hand at the pipe smoke.
“No need to get huffed up, Lige. Doubt we could do better. Not much anyway.” Stryker stared at McCabe with hard eyes. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. McCabe. Just so you’ll know, me and Lige Carpenter will catch up with them Dents. They’ll get justice for what they done. At the end of a rope or from the barrel of a gun, I swear it.”
“I hope so, Mr. Stryker,” McCabe said. He knocked the pipe against a brass tray on his desk. “I apologize for not being able to give you more to go on, but that’s all I have.”
Outside, Stryker spoke over his shoulder. “Lige, do me a favor. Dig into all you can remember about the Dents. See if you can come up with anything that might be helpful.”
“I’ve been thinking on it,” Carpenter said. “But I ain’t had no inspiration as of right now.”
“Put it in your mind,” Stryker said. “Sometimes we remember things when we aren’t even thinking about it. Kinda like bubbles coming up through swamp water.”
Stryker had just loosened Saif’s reins when Carpenter said, “Trouble coming, Matt.”
“Damn. Right out here on Toole, with purt near every wagon in Tucson on the road.” Stryker stepped away so Saif would not be in the line of fire. “I see you, Upton,” he said, his voice hard as the planes of his scarred face.
Upton strode down Toole Street and stopped a good thirty feet away from Stryker. He’d shed his sack coat. Suspenders held up his wool pants. A yellowish shirt with bloused sleeves made him look even bigger than he was. A Remington Army sat in a gun rig that had not see much use. Somehow it didn’t ride naturally on Upton’s hip.
“You want it to happen here and now, then?” Stryker’s voice carried over the clank of iron wagon tires, over the chuffing of the steam engine idling on Southern Pacific tracks, over the crack of bullwhips and the cries of cowboys herding cattle into the ketch pens on the far side of the railroad.
“Yeah. Here.” Upton fairly shouted. His hand hung like a claw over the walnut grips of the Remington Army.
Stryker never faced off with Upton. He just started walking toward the would-be gunman, his hands swinging free and easy at his sides.
“What the hell you doing, Stryker. Come on. Draw!”
Stryker had covered half the distance to Upton. He quickened and lengthened his stride.
“I’ll draw. I’ll kill you!” Upton fairly screamed, but as his clawed hand dropped to the grips of the Remington, Matt Stryker’s big left hand grabbed Upton’s right and the Remington with it.
Stryker growled in Upton’s ear, “Don’t look for gunfights, son, before you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m gonna kill you,” Upton screeched, but Stryker’s iron grip held his Remington fast.
Stryker backhanded Upton across the jaw. “Come to your senses, man. You don’t have what it takes to kill me. Take a good look at my face. The man who done that while four rannies held me is dead. Six feet under. Maybe more. You hear me?”
“I’m gonna kill you,” Upton said, but he didn’t move his gun hand.
“If you do, it’ll have to be from half a mile away with a good Creedmoor long gun. That’s the only way. Now. You let go of the Remington, and I’ll let go of you. Deal?”
Stryker felt Upton’s grip loosen, and he twisted the Remington free of Upton’s hand. “Good man.” He shoved the Remington behind his waistband. “I’ll turn your six-gun over to Sheriff Paul. You can go get it anytime after I get there. Just don’t try using it on me again.”
“Upton,” Carpenter called.
Upton stopped, his back to Stryker and Carpenter.
“Upton, I don’t know you except for a couple of drinks we had, but let me tell you. You’re a lucky man. Anyone but Matt Stryker would have just gunned you down. And that includes me. Why not leave it lie? Hmmm?”
Upton hunched his shoulders, then straightened them. Without a word, he walked away.
“Matt. Not sure you done yourself a favor just now. Upton’s almighty shamed. Next time he’ll not come head on.”
“I know that, Lige. But it ain’t right to kill a man just because you can.” He mounted Saif. “Let’s go on over to the Royal. See what that Hershey man’s got to say.”
Carpenter swung up on the black-point dun. “Lead on,” he said.
Tucson was capital of the Arizona Territory for a decade until it moved back to Prescott in 1877. The city outgrew many of the pains of frontier towns and there was talk about setting up a university on the outskirts. With more than 7,000 residents, commerce boomed, even though the city was no longer capital.
Still, buildings lined the city’s streets, some plank-and-batten, but most adobe. The former capitol building and the courthouse were brick. Tucson traced its roots back more than a century, and Spanish influences permeated the city. Even Chinese came to Tucson, gathering near Pennington Street and opening laundries, restaurants, stores, and opium dens.
Stryker and Carpenter rode side by side down Toole to where the road branched into Arizona Avenue. They followed Arizona to Congress Street, where they turned west. The Royal Hotel stood on the corner of Congress and Granada.
A group of men milled around the entrance to the Royal, talking in subdued tones. Stryker dismounted Saif at the side of the hotel where hitching rails allowed horses to stand for a while. Carpenter got off the dun and checked his Lightning. They pushed through the crowd, making their way in the front door. The first thing Stryker noticed was the huge form of Sheriff Bob Paul. From the looks of things, the sheriff wanted answers, not questions.
“Now’s not the time,” Stryker said to Carpenter. Whatever’s happened, Bob Paul don’t like it.”
Carpenter faded back into the crowd outside and Stryker waited for a chance to talk to the sheriff. He sidled closer, hoping to catch some of the conversation.
“Why do you figure so, Mason?” Sheriff Paul asked.
“I have no idea, sheriff, honest to God.”
“Hmmm. Ain’t too often a man turns up dead like that. Not one like him.”
“I have no idea, sheriff,” the man called Mason repeated.
“Hanging,” Carpenter said at Stryker’s shoulder. “Man hung himself up in Room 214. That’s what they say.”
“A man don’t usually hang himself,” Stryker said. “Usually eats his gun.”
“Lots of townies don’t carry a gun these days,” Carpenter said. “Maybe he had no gun barrel to eat.”
“Could be. Any word as to who it is hanging up there?”
“Yeah.”
Stryker gave Carpenter a sidelong glance. “Well?”
“You ain’t gonna like this.”
“Try me.”
“Them outside said the maid found a man hanging dead in his room. They say it was Elrowe Hershey.”
Chapter Six
The Chiricahuas towered in the distance. Just looking at them, a man would never guess freshets and grassy glades lay hidden amongst the pillars and walls of solid rock.
White men figured there were only two ways to get through or around the Chiricahuas—go south through Apache Pass, or go north through the foothills of Dos Cabezas. Anyone who wanted to go up into the Chiricahuas from the west had to go through Hell’s Gate and up Hell’s Trail.
As usual, Lester Dent headed the Dent column. That’s what he called it, the Dent column. He grinned inside, but outside, he was a stern patriarch, the guiding light to a coming generation of Dent sons. Finn and Lee Roy showed promise, although they needed upbraiding of a time. And Wee Willy. T’would never do to send him off by himself. He was good at hefting and carrying around camp or on a ranch o
r somewhere, but not quick enough in the head to be sent off by himself.
And the woman, Molly. Might have to change her name. Molly. She had her good points. Not many women able to cook good grub on an open fire. Molly could and Molly did. Molly did a lot of things. True, the boys used her a lot, but young men were bound to want to hump. Couldn’t let them pound on her too much. She needed to be able to do for the Dents and she couldn’t do that all bruised and broken. Yeah. Humping and hitting had to be separated. For sure.
“Missus,” Lester called.
Molly looked up from her darning. No telling where she got a needle and thread, but she was darning.
“Missus, you might want to take yourself a bath in the crick. Not that you stink or nothing, just that going through Hell’s Gate and up Hell’s Trail’ll put us a long way from water for a long while.”
Molly held up a sock wither finger poked through a hole.
“Finish what yore doing,” Lester said.
Molly nodded and leaned closer to the fire so she could see to darn.
Lester’d sent Finn to Alamo, a little mining camp that clung to the side of a mountain in the Rincons. He’d given Finn money for supplies and such. God help the boy not to get caught up in drinking and gambling just because his pa wasn’t there to look after him. God help.
The sun was not yet down, but Lee Roy already slept, his head on his saddle and his saddle blanket between his body and the ground. Wee Willy sat all curled up into as little a ball as he could make of himself. He always chose a spot near Molly, but not too near. Lester wondered about the man-boy, then shoved Wee Willy from his mind. Wee Willy didn’t have enough gumption to make any kind of a move or take any kind of chance on his own.
Molly finished darning the sock. Lester noticed her look in his direction. He raised his eyebrows. She gestured toward the creek. He nodded. She stood, brushed the sand off her dress—the one she’d had on when they left Miller’s Well—and moved away toward the creek. When she’d gotten out of sight, Wee Willy stood and followed her. For an instant, Lester wondered if Wee Willy wanted to peek at Molly when she got naked. He decided it didn’t matter, if or not.
By the time Finn got all the supplies bought and packed on the mule, the sun had ducked behind the Rincon Mountains. Sundown always brings on a man’s thirst, Finn figured. There was no reason to rush. He left his horse and the mule tied to the hitching rail at Growley’s, where he bought the supplies. He still had some money. Enough. Plenty. Almost twenty dollars. He could afford a drink or two. No need to pay for a poke, he could poke Molly anytime. Just like having a wife, almost. He wandered down Alamo’s single street toward the sound of happy voices.
BEST WHISKEY the sign said. Another hand-painted board said the tent saloon was the Mother Lode. Finn grinned. Just a couple of drinks, that’s all. Two. Maybe three. Besides, the door was open and it sounded like people were having a good time inside. Finn licked his lips and threaded his way to the bar.
“Howdy, stranger.” The man behind the bar wore a big smile, a walrus moustache, and mutton chop sideburns that extended up the sides of his face until they disappeared into his bald pate, just above his ears. “What’ll ya have? I’m Todd. First one’s on Charley Wainwright, I might add.”
“Whiskey’d be good,” Finn said. “Real good shot of whiskey.”
“Coming up.” Todd reached for a long-necked bottle with no label and poured a generous three fingers of amber liquid into a slightly foggy glass. “Like I said, the first one’s on ol’ Charley Wainwright.” Todd put the glass on the plank bar right in front of Finn.
Slobber filled Finn’s mouth at the thought of drinking the hefty shot of whiskey sitting right there before him. Free for the drinking, too. He took the glass in his strong untrembling grasp and knocked it back.
Good. Lord. Good.
The whiskey went down in three swallows, but the sledgehammer of fire hit all at once.
Then the burning gradually settled down to stoked furnace level. Finn wiped his watering eyes. “Whew. Prime. By the almighty, prime. How much you getting for a shot of that fine whiskey?”
“For you?” Todd squinted his eyes like he was eyeing up a prize steer. “Well. First time I ever saw you, maybe the last. But I’ll sell you the prime for four bits a shot. Four lousy bits.”
Finn dug into his vest pocket and came up with a silver dollar. “Gimme two shots, side by side, if you would. And you can take that cartwheel right there to pay for it.”
Todd’s smile was big and wide, but Finn didn’t see the steely glint in his eyes. The barkeep added a glass to the one Finn had drunk from and poured two fingers of whiskey in each from a long-necked bottle that may have been the one he’d used before.
The fire in Finn’s belly spread. He smiled back at Todd. He took one of the glasses in hand and downed the contents. Sheesh. The flames in the furnace that was Finn’s innards fairly roared, and the heat spread upwards and outward, affecting his hands and feet, and his head.
Whew. Finn reached for the second glass but his hand didn’t follow directions. He finally had to use both hands to get the whiskey glass to his face. “Prime,” he mumbled. “Bitchin’ good booze.” He tipped the glass up and slurped at the whiskey. Some dribbled from the corners of his mouth. Most made it into his gullet.
“Man oh man,” Finn said. Or that’s what he thought he said.
“You all right, stranger?” Todd’s face swam before Finn’s eyes.
Finn scrubbed his face with his hands. His face felt numb. “Ahm awright. Couple a whiskeys ain’t nothing.”
Todd said nothing.
“Hey, Todd.” Someone down the rough plank bar hollered.
“Be right there.” Todd sidled down the bar toward the caller. They talked, but Finn couldn’t tell what they said. Todd and the other man looked like they were at the end of a long tunnel. Two or three. That’s what Finn had promised himself. A drink or two or three. Todd sidled back up the bar until he stood in front of Finn again.
“Enjoy that there whiskey, stranger? By the way, can’t keep calling you stranger. What might yore moniker be, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Fun . . . er, Fan . . . no, Finn. That there’s m’name. Finn.”
Todd stuck out a hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Finn. Hope the whiskey meets your needs for a fine drink. Something that soothes a man after a hard day.”
Finn nodded gravely. “S’s good. Right good stuff, I’d say.”
“Nothern?”
Finn remembered the promise he’d made to himself. He was floating, to be sure, but he’d promised . . . one or two, maybe three drinks, then back to camp. Pa depended on him more’n Lee Roy. More’n Wee Willy. “I reckon a couple’s all I better drink tonight, Todd. Thankee kindly all the same.”
“Bet that booze warmed you right up, Finn.” Todd leaned across the bar. “Listen. This ain’t for everybody’s ears, but some a the boys is planning to get a good card game going. High stakes. Winner take all.”
Finn peered at Todd. His promise didn’t cover card games. “Winner take all?”
Todd nodded.
Finn shrugged. “Got any coffee?”
Todd grinned, but the smile never made it all the way to his eyes. “You bet. Man’s got to have his wits about him when he’s playing winner take all.” He disappeared through a door in the canvas wall and came right back with a coffee pot in one hand and a tin cup in the other. “A nickel for the coffee, Finn. Sorry, but them’s the rules.”
Finn plonked another cartwheel on the plank bar.
Todd looked at it. “No change?” he said.
“Nope.”
“Then how about I hold onto this dollar. You might be wanting something else that it could cover. Give ya your change when you leave. Fair enough?” Todd poured the tin cup about three-quarters full of coffee.
Finn wasn’t sure if what Todd proposed was all right, but he nodded. A cartwheel against the gold bars in pa’s pack was nothing. He slurped
in a mouthful of hot coffee, swallowed, then slurped up another. He focused his attention on the coffee. Time to head back to camp. Supplies. That’s what pa sent him to Alamo for. Time to start back. He drained the cup and shoved it out toward Todd. “Nothern,” he said.
Todd poured the coffee. “Gotta get this back on the stove,” he said, and took the pot back through the door in the canvas wall.
The warmth of the whiskey still filled Finn’s bowels, but his head wasn’t quite as fuzzy as before. He held the cup with both hands, elbows on the bar.
Supplies. Pa said the Dent column’d be going through Hell’s Gate and east over Hell’s Trail to a place where they could hunker down until people’d kinda forgot about Miller’s Well. Not that Miller’s Well was connected to the Dents and the Dents to Miller’s Well, but there was the missus. Finn liked poking the missus. And she looked good. But she knew the Dents and what they’d done at Miller’s Well. Finn shook his head and grabbed another mouthful of coffee. Prolly be best to just conk her on the head and toss her down a canyon. Plenty of those around. Finn was surprised when something wet splatted on the back of his hand. Then he realized tears ran down his cheeks. What for? If she had to hit bottom in a canyon, so what? He swiped at the tears with the back of his hand. Supplies.
Todd came back. “Nother whiskey, Finn?”
Finn shook his head. “More coffee.”
Todd didn’t look happy, but he got the pot and filled Finn’s cup. “You could have another whiskey with what’s left a that cartwheel,” he said. “Prime whiskey.”
Finn stared down into the coffee cup. Another whiskey sounded downright good. Awful good. And that prime whiskey carried a powerful punch. He shook his head. “Cain’t,” he said. “The whole Dent column’s depending on me to bring supplies. Gotta get through Hell’s Gate. Gotta get through Hell’s Trail. The column’s waiting.”
Todd’s ears pricked up. “Column?”
Finn nodded, his face as solemn as the prime whiskey he’d imbibed would allow.
“Lots a soldiers?”
Finn straightened. This man was asking questions about the column. Better be careful. “Nough,” he said. “Nough to handle just about any situation,” he said. “Don’t matter who’s looking for our gold, they ain’t gonna find it.”
