"I guess your bank must be doing all right, from the sounds of it," Landrum commented idly.
Watts nodded. "Yes, indeed. Properly managed, a bank such as this one can be'just as lucrative for its officers as one in a larger city. And I am a good manager, sir," he added proudly.
"I'm sure you are," Landrum said, ready to move on and get away from Watts and his chest-thumping. An idea suddenly occurred to him, however, and he said, "I reckon you know most of your depositors, don't you?"
"Of course. That's just part of being a good banker."
"Do some folks called Moody have an account with you? Or isn't that the kind of question a banker can ethically answer?"
Watts frowned. "It's a bit irregular, Mr. Davis, but in this case, I don't mind answering. I know the family you're talking about, and I can assure you they don't have an account in the bank. They're not the sort to trust financial institutions, even if they did have money." The banker hesitated, then asked, "If you don't mind a question, why do you want to know about the Moodys?"
Landrum was ready with an answer. "I heard somebody mention them in the saloon last night, and I was trying to figure out if they're the same bunch I used to known down around Sweetwater."
Watts rubbed his jaw in thought. "I don't know if these Moodys have ever lived in West Texas or not. There are four boys in the family. Arlie is the oldest, and I can't even recall the names of the others. Their mother is still alive, too, and I believe she lives with them."
Landrum shook his head. "Nope, that's not the same family I used to know. They had all gals. Pretty ones, too." He grinned at Watts.
Watts laughed shortly. "No one would call any of these Moodys pretty," he said. "They're a rough lot. According to the rumors, they keep squaws and brew whiskey. I've heard that they have a cabin somewhere up in the Brakes, but unless they know you, it's worth your life to ride near there."
"Quick on the trigger, eh?" Landrum mused. Talking to Watts like this had been a lucky break, and he felt more certain that ever now that he was on the right trail.
"I wouldn't go up there," Watts said fervently. "Not even the Rangers go into the Brakes much. No need to. There's nothing there except a few hermits like the Moodys."
Watts was just echoing what Landrum had learned in the saloon the night before. Landrum nodded and said, "Sounds like a bad bunch, all right."
"Say, speaking of O'Leary's place," Watts said, "I heard about Ab Huddleston. That was a horrible thing to witness, I imagine."
"It was," Landrum agreed, his demeanor abruptly turning grim. "From what I heard, folks are worried that this means the beginning of another outbreak of Indian trouble."
"That's what I'm afraid of." Watts shook his head. "It's a shame people can't live without fear of being murdered by savages. That's what keeps this country from developing to its full potential."
"I was told they come down off the reservations up in Indian Territory, carry out their raids, and run back home."
"That's right. And the army doesn't seem to give a damn!"
That wasn't strictly true, Landrum thought. If there had not been concern over the situation, Powell's Army never would have been sent in. But he couldn't correct the banker's angry assertion, not without revealing his true identity.
And he wasn't going to do that, not when he sensed that the case was drawing to a conclusion. Once he had proof that the Moodys were the ones smuggling whiskey into the Nations and had located their headquarters, he could pass the information on to Amos Powell. Powell could then work through channels and have troops sent in to break up the operation.
For a moment, Landrum wondered where Glidinghawk’s was and what he was doing. For all Landrum knew, the Omaha was still at Fort Supply. He didn't like having the team split up like this. Somehow it made him nervous not to be able to keep an eye on what the others were doing —especially Fox.
To Watts, Landrum said, "Well, we can hope the Indians aren't going on a widespread rampage again. I don't intend to move on for a while."
"I just hope that the other citizens have your fortitude, Mr. Davis. If things get bad enough, Truscott could turn into a ghost town overnight."
Landrum shook his head. "It'll take more than a bunch of redskins to run me off."
He bid good morning to Watts and continued on down the street to O'Leary's place. The front door of the Shamrock was open and the swamper was sweeping out the saloon. Landrum stepped past him and went into the cool dimness of the big room.
O'Leary was behind the bar, a ledger spread open in front of him. He was laboriously adding up a long column of figures, occasionally licking the tip of the pencil he held in his knobby fingers. Glancing up at Landrum, he grunted, "Morning. We'll not be open for business for a short while yet, Mr. Davis. I can pour a small dram for ye, unofficial-like, if ye want."
Landrum shook his head. "No, thanks. Have you heard how the Huddleston boy is doing?"
O'Leary finished his mathematics and closed the ledger. "He's doing as well as can be expected, I suppose. He stayed with Hughie last night. The funeral for his poor father will be this afternoon. If the lad gets through that, I imagine he'll be all right."
Landrum nodded, looking suitably solemn. He leaned on the bar and glanced at the open door of the saloon. Morning light spilled in through it, and the motes of dust stirred up by the swamper's sweeping danced crazily in the sunshine.
In a low voice, Landrum said, "Mr. O'Leary, I'm going to be honest with you. My funds are dwindling, and I'm on the lookout for a way to make some money. You know the Moodys, don't you?"
The elderly Irishman shot a sharp frown toward Landrum. "I heard ye talking to Garrick about the Moodys last night. I thought ye had more sense than to get mixed up with scoundrels like them, though."
Landrum shrugged. "When a man needs money, he can't always choose his associates."
"What makes ye think I know anything about the Moodys?" O'Leary asked, squinting across the bar.
"I hear they make whiskey," Landrum said bluntly. "You sell whiskey."
O'Leary bristled. "I have my stock brought in, and it's all good-quality liquor. I'm no peddler of inferior whiskey, Mr. Davis."
Quickly, Landrum tried to soothe the old man's ruffled feelings. "I know that," he said. "But there are bound to be times when you run a little short. And you can't tell me that all of these cowhands around here are experts on whiskey. Hell, we both know they'll drink damn near anything with a kick to it."
"Aye, that's the truth," O'Leary admitted. He looked around the barroom, empty except for the two of them. "I wouldn't admit this if anyone else was around, lad, but you're right. There are times I have to supplement my regular supply with that concoction brewed up by the Moodys. I don't like it, but you're right about some of my customers. They don't know any difference, and they wouldn't care if they did."
"So you can tell me where to find the Moodys?" Landrum asked, trying to sound very interested but not too eager.
"Why? Why do ye want to see those scrofulous young assassins?"
"Let's just say I have some business I want to discuss with them."
O'Leary sighed. "All right, lad, be mysterious if ye like. 'Tis none of my affair, anyway. But I like you, and I don't want you to get yourself shot up by messing with the Moodys."
"I can take care of myself," Landrum declared, his features taut and angry. "If you don't want to tell me, I'll just ride out there and find them anyway. How hard can it be?"
"Hard enough to get ye ventilated, you young fool!" O'Leary snapped.
Landrum wondered how long it had been since someone had called him a young fool. No one had referred to him as young in quite a while . . .
"If you're stubborn enough to go out into the Brakes, I'd best tell you what to look for," O'Leary said reluctantly. "Otherwise, ye'll never find the place, and even if ye did, the Moodys would start shooting before you could tell them why you're there."
"Thanks, Mr. O'Leary," Landrum said sincerely. "I apprecia
te it."
O'Leary scowled. "I'm only doing this because I feel sorry for that young lass with you. I don't want you getting killed and leaving her alone out here."
Quickly, the old man told Landrum how to find the Moodys. He detailed the route leading northwest from the town, and went on to say, "When ye come to the canyon that leads through the bluffs, ye'd best stop and fire three shots into the air. More than likely, one of the Moodys will be on guard there and will come to see what you want. You tell them that I sent you."
"Will that get you into trouble with them?"
O'Leary gave a short, barking laugh. "I'm too old to be worrying about such things, me boy. The Moodys don't frighten me."
Landrum nodded. "All right. Thanks again."
"Don't mention it. If ye want to pay me back, just try not to get yourself killed."
"I'll try," Landrum promised with a chuckle. He rang a coin on the shining bartop. "Now I could use a little hair of the dog, Mr. O'Leary."
The Irishman reached for a bottle. "I think I'll join ye. And this stuff, lad, was not purchased from the Moodys. I can promise ye that."
Landrum tossed off the drink and immediately felt much better. His headache vanished. He didn't know if that was because of the liquor or because he was excited about closing in on his quarry.
By the time he left O'Leary's, he was more than ready to ride.
He had to go by the house first, though, and let Celia know what he was doing. He also wanted to pass along to her the directions that O'Leary had given him. It was important that she know how to find the Moody place, in case anything happened to him. That way, at least the army could still come in and smash the smuggling scheme —
Even if he never came back from this ride.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"You're going to do what?" Celia asked. She was frowning in disapproval.
"I'm going to ride out into the Brakes and find the Moodys," Landrum told her. "I'm sure they're the ones behind the whiskey smuggling, and all I have to do now is find their headquarters."
"Oh. That's all," Celia snorted sarcastically.
Landrum checked the cinch of the saddle on the horse he had just rented at Truscott's only livery stable. The animal was a bay mare, not fast or flashy but dependable according to the stableman. Landrum patted the horse on the flank.
"This is crazy, Landrum," Celia said. She was standing in the small front yard of the Stanley house.
"Why?" he asked in genuine puzzlement. "You knew all along why we were here. We came to stop the whiskey runners. This is the best way to go about it."
"And you know what O'Leary told you. They're trigger-happy lunatics. You're going to get yourself killed."
Perhaps unwisely, Landrum had repeated the details of his conversations with Watts and O'Leary.
When she had heard what the banker and the saloonkeeper had to say, Celia had agreed with all of Landrum's conclusions —up to the point when he told her he was riding into the Brakes.
"We're in a risky business, Celia," Landrum pointed out. "Anyway, I remember somebody else taking some pretty foolish chances up in Denver while Glidinghawk and I weren't around."
Celia flushed, partly in anger and partly in embarrassment. "That was different," she said. "Like you said, you weren't there. I had an opportunity to crack the case and had to make the decision right away whether or not to take it. It worked out all right, didn't it?"
Landrum smiled humorlessly. "After a little gunfire, yeah, I suppose it did."
"You may run into more than a little gunfire out there, Landrum."
The Texan swung up into the saddle. "Maybe so. The important thing is that you remember those directions O'Leary gave me and I gave you. If I'm not back by tomorrow morning, you light out for the nearest town with a telegraph station and get in touch with Amos. Tell him to tell the cavalry to come a-runnin'."
Celia reached out and placed a hand on his thigh. It was a rather forward gesture, she knew, and if any of the ladies in the neighborhood were watching, they would be scandalized.
But what the hell, her reputation in this town was a bad one to start with. To the citizens of Truscott, Landrum was some sort of rascal and Celia was his scarlet woman. Those were the images they had worked to project.
"If you're determined to do this, the least you can do is promise me you'll be careful," she said solemnly.
"Always," Landrum said with a grin.
"Huh! I know better, Landrum Davis."
He swung the horse around. "You just remember what I told you. Tomorrow morning, you hear?"
"I hear," Celia replied softly as he heeled the horse into motion. She watched him ride down the street and out of town, and she didn't go back in the house until he was completely out of sight.
Landrum was touched by Celia's concern, even though he didn't show it. Ever since he had met her, he had thought that if he were only a few years younger, he might have given in to the feelings he had for her.
He was a couple of decades older than her, however, and he had little to offer a young woman like Celia. Besides, they had formed a good working partnership. Romance would just cause unnecessary complications.
The terrain became more rugged as Landrum rode northwestward. Overall, it was still fairly flat, but the land began to be cut by gullies and marked by rocky red bluffs. Gradually, Landrum found himself riding through an area of almost complete desolation, an alien land where only fools would attempt to live.
Fools —or someone with something to hide.
Landrum's back was getting itchy, a feeling he recognized. He was being watched. Either that, or the stories he had heard about the Moodys back in Truscott had made him nervous.
He kept riding. At this point, there was nothing else he could do.
By the middle of the afternoon, he began to wonder if he had taken a wrong turn somewhere and gotten lost. Landrum thought he had followed O'Leary's directions correctly, noting what few landmarks there were out here, but by now he should have reached the canyon leading into the little valley where the Moodys had their cabin.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, he spotted the arroyo up ahead that quickly deepened into a cut that led deeper into the Brakes. That was what he was looking for, Landrum realized.
That was where the Moodys would have their guard, ready to challenge any strangers — and ready to shoot.
Landrum took a deep breath, still feeling that itchy sensation in the middle of his back, and put the horse into the cut. Its hoofbeats rang hollowly against the steep sides of the declivity.
Fifteen minutes went by while Landrum followed the narrow, winding canyon. He began to feel uncomfortably closed in by the walls, but he had come this far. Damned if he was going to turn back now.
The confines of the canyon became even tighter, but he thought he could see it opening up somewhat ahead of him. Landrum kept the horse moving . . .
And then the click of a hammer being drawn back, surprisingly loud in the hot afternoon silence, made him pull his mount to an abrupt halt.
"Sit easy, stranger," a voice said, "or I'll blow you right out of that saddle."
Gerald Glidinghawk was sitting in a little niche that nature had carved into the side of the canyon at some time in the dim past. There was a good-sized boulder perched on the narrow ledge to provide cover. It was a natural sentry post because it commanded a view of the canyon's entire width at a fairly narrow point.
One man with enough ammunition could almost hold off an army from up here.
Glidinghawk had been taking his turn at guard duty here for a couple of days now, and he had rapidly discovered that it was a boring job. However, it was better than staying around the cabin and trying to keep out of Ma Moody's sight. He forced himself to remain alert, because Arlie Moody had a habit of checking up on him. Now, as he rested his back against the rock, he heard Arlie puffing slightly as he climbed the trail to the sentry post.
Glidinghawk straightened a little, lifting the Winchester i
n his hands. It was possible that someone besides Arlie was trying to sneak up on him and doing a bad job of it. That was unlikely, though.
Arlie's battered black Stetson came into view. The burly smuggler pulled himself up onto the ledge, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. "Damn!" he exclaimed between gasps. "Man's nearly got to be a blamed mountain goat to get up here!"
Glidinghawk nodded. "Everything is quiet," he said.
"Any sign of Dirk yet?"
"I haven't seen him," Glidinghawk replied with a shake of his head. "Haven't seen anyone, in fact."
Dirk Moody had left the valley early that morning, heading for Truscott to buy some supplies. He would probably be returning soon.
"Hope he didn't have no trouble," Arlie said as he leaned against the side of the bluff and scanned the floor of the canyon. "Claude like to got in a fight a week or so ago while him and Dirk was there. I've told them boys to be careful in the saloon, but you know how youngsters are."
"Yes," Glidinghawk grunted wryly, thinking that Arlie made his brothers sound like mischievous boys rather than the brutal hardcases that they actually were.
" 'Course, Claude always did have a hankerin' for redheads. A real purty one came into town, and Claude just asked her to sit with him whilst he played some poker. Feller she was with took exception to the offer."
Glidinghawk kept his features under control, but he felt a quickening of his pulse and his interest. Arlie was just talking to hear the sound of his voice, but he might have unwittingly just given Glidinghawk’s some news about Landrum and Celia. He supposed some other pretty young redhead besides Celia could have arrived in Truscott a week earlier, but it wasn't very likely.
And Landrum Davis was the type to get his back up if Celia had been accosted by a lout like Dirk Moody.
Evidently the clash had not led to gunfire, which was good to hear if it had indeed been Landrum and Celia who were involved. Glidinghawk had wondered many times in the past couple of days how they were proceeding with their investigation. The knowledge that they were probably within a day's ride of him was frustrating.
Red River Desperadoes Page 11
