by Ralph Cotton
“Nothing,” said Duvall. He spit sidelong and gazed ahead with a furrowed brow.
At a stock car, Antan Fellows and Grady Black busily unloaded supplies and horses down a wooden cargo ramp. Peyton Quinn stood back observing, a thumb hooked into his gun belt, holding back the lapel of his corduroy coat. His face was covered with healing bruises and a vicious welt from a marble ashtray. His right eye was still puffy and purple-ringed. Upon seeing Grissin and Duvall, Quinn called out to Grady and Fellows through battered lips, “All right, men, vamos! We haven’t got all day here.”
Hearing Quinn, and having gotten the gist of Duvall’s comment about chamber pots, Grissin said in Quinn’s defense, “Peyton Quinn never let me down before.”
Duvall gave a glance at Grissin’s cut and battered knuckles, associating them with Quinn’s face. “I say where there’s a before, there should never be an after ,” said Duvall. He spit again. “But that’s just my thinking on the matter.”
“I’ll take note of your having said it,” Grissin replied. “I hope you and I have a good solid understanding of what I want done up here.”
“I believe we do,” said Duvall. “You’ve got a ranger you want dry-sodded for hurting your boys’ feelings, and four cattle punchers you want skinned and et alive for stealing your money. I’d have to be a fool not to understand it the first time, wouldn’t I?” His words came as something between a threat and a question.
“I’d never consider you a fool, Tillman Duvall,” said Grissin, “but because I’ve dealt with my share of idiots these days, let’s talk straight. To hell with my boys’ feelings. For reasons I won’t go into I don’t want the ranger in our way.”
“You want him killed?” Duvall asked.
“If it takes killing him to keep him from meddling, yes, that’s all right by me. The most important thing is getting my money back.”
As Grissin spoke, they stopped near Peyton Quinn at the cargo ramp. A tall man wearing batwing chaps, with a saddle over his shoulder and a rifle in his hand, came walking toward them from the other direction. “That’s Chester Cannidy, foreman at my newly acquired Long Pines spread.”
“More cowpunchers, how nice,” Duvall commented skeptically. “I’m wondering if I charged you enough for this work.”
Grissin gave him a sudden heated stare. “You charged as much as the market would bear, Duvall.”
“If we was standing on Texas dirt, I’d oblige you to call me Mr. Duvall,” the serpent-faced gunman said with a trace of a strange, cruel grin, letting Grissin know that heated stares didn’t unsettle him in the least.
“We’re not in Texas,” said Grissin. “A day’s ride and we’re not even in ’Zona.” His eyes narrowed, and his dark grin matched Duvall’s. “See? I know where I’m at, Duvall,” he added, leaning a little menacingly toward him.
“Meaning?” Duvall asked in a prickly tone.
“Meaning I’ve seen thieves and gunmen go sour on one another when one of them becomes rich . . . the way I have,” said Grissin. “They think that man turned soft for some reason.” He tapped his black-gloved fingers on his gun butt. “But before you start returning me short answers and side pokes to test my bark, you’ll do well to remind yourself how many men I’ve killed, none of them for pay, the way you have, but every damn one of them because they thought they could crowd me over matters of money.”
Without taking his eyes from Grissin’s, Duvall crooked his mouth sidelong and spit, then said, “I’m reminded, and you’ll do well to note that I’ll need no further reminding on the subject.”
Grissin nodded slowly in agreement and turned away when Chester Cannidy stopped and dropped his saddle onto the plank platform. “Hey, cowboy,” Quinn said to him straightaway, “give them a hand with these horses and supplies.”
Cannidy gave him a narrowed stare.
“You heard me, vamos!” said Quinn in a belligerent manner, his battered face partially hidden by the shadow of his hat brim.
Vamos, your ass. . . . Ignoring him, Cannidy turned to Grissin. “Mr. Grissin, I picked up a little more news about the four drovers on my way here through Creasy.”
“Good work, Cannidy, what is it?” said Grissin, giving a thin smile of satisfaction for Duvall’s sake. Duvall looked away, this time toward Quinn, and spit again.
“A bartender told me two men rode into town, dressed like drovers. One of them wore spectacles and rode like he was wounded. That would be Holly Thorpe. He got himself treated by the doctor there. The ranger found him, but Thorpe got away when the ranger’s horse picked up a bad bruise and a pulled tendon.”
“Any word about my money?” Grissin looked at him expectantly.
“No, sir, nothing,” said Cannidy. “But can I tell you what I think?”
Grissin just looked at him.
Cannidy ventured on. “I think these drovers got a hold of it by mistake and don’t know how to turn it loose.”
“You’re telling me they’re not thieves?” Grissin shrugged. “What do I care? Thieves, thugs or Methodists, it doesn’t matter, they’ve still got my money.”
“Alls I’m saying is maybe if we could let them know that all they’ve got to do is give it back to us,” said Cannidy. He gestured a nod north toward a line of high rugged hilltops, beyond them a line of even higher, even more rugged mountains. “It would beat tracking them in this hard country.”
“You’re my tracker, Cannidy,” Grissin said harshly. “Is this going to be too hard for you?”
“No, sir, I can track them past hell and back to Kansas,” said Cannidy. “I’m just offering something for consideration, is all.”
“Hmmph.” Duvall looked away and spit again in disgust.
“I see.” Grissin looked at him for a moment, then nodded his head. “What about this? I could get word to them, offer them a reward of some sort?”
“I hadn’t gone that far, but I expect it couldn’t hurt,” said Cannidy.
“How much . . . ?” Grissin looked back and forth, studying the idea. “Say, five hundred, a thousand dollars maybe?”
“Well, I—” Cannidy stammered.
Grissin cut him off with a jerk of his head. “Get the hell over there and help with the horses! Track these drovers for me!” he bellowed. “Leave all the thinking to me!”
Cannidy jerked his saddle back up over his shoulder and stepped away.
Duvall looked off, muffling a laugh. A moment later, spotting a rider on a big black-and-white-speckled barb with a black mane and stocking, he asked Grissin, “Have you got any more experts coming to join us?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Grissin, looking out across a flat stretch of land at the rider in the long tan riding duster and black suit. “This man used to be chief detective for Midwest Detective Agency.”
“Used to be, huh?” said Duvall, with a sarcastic turn to his voice. He spit sidelong again, this time blowing out his jawful of tobacco and reaching for a fresh plug from the twist of Red Circle inside his duster pocket.
Grissin looked at him. “Yeah, he used to be. Now he’s not. The ranger shot him. He lost his job over it. Now he wants a piece of the ranger’s hide. See why I hired him?” he added stiffly.
“Hell, that’s Clayton Longworth,” said Duvall, his attitude perking up a little. “Now you’re talking. I was starting to wonder if you even knew any gunmen.” He bit a fresh plug off the twist of Red Circle tobacco and stuck the remaining twist back into his pocket.
Grissin gave him a smoldering look, but decided not to respond. Instead, he said, “Being chief of detectives was no small job. I’m going to need a man with that kind of knowledge around me from now on.” He looked at Duvall pointedly and said, “A man with knowledge might be as important as having a bodyguard.”
“Not if there’s somebody bent on killing you,” Duvall replied without facing him. He turned sidelong and spit again.
At the wooden cargo ramp, Quinn looked at Cannidy and said dryly, “Welcome to the hunt, cowboy. Throw your saddle over som
ething, go hitch it and get yourself back over here. We’ve got lots of work left to do.”
“Don’t call me cowboy,” said Cannidy, in a prickly tone. “My name is Chester Cannidy. I’m the tracker for this party.”
“I know your name, cowboy,” said Quinn. “Mr. Grissin told us you’d be meeting us here. Now get a cayouse under your saddle and vamos.”
Vamos your ass. . . . Cannidy turned away, biding his time for now. He eyed a stout-looking little red desert barb, walked over and slung his saddle up over its back.
He had a feeling that finding these drovers wouldn’t be the hardest tracking he’d ever done. But like a man cornering wildcats, once he had them what was he going to do with them? He knew Mackenzie and his drovers wouldn’t give up easy. He also knew that Cleland Davis had a cabin in the north of the territory. If he knew about that cabin he was sure all of the former Long Pines drovers knew about it too.
He’d learned about the cabin himself back when he’d worked as a drover for a big English cattle syndicate. Cinching the saddle, he shook it back and forth with both hands, testing it. The real question, he thought, was whether he wanted to lead Grissin and these men there and take a chance on getting Mackenzie and his pals killed. Damn it . . . , he said in silent reply. How’d those four manage to get into such a mess?
In Creasy, Sam and Maria had lost two days after the ranger’s horse pulled a tendon while they were bringing the wounded man to town. It had not been easy to find a good replacement horse for Black Eye, but he’d finally arranged to rent a fiery-spirited roan from the town veterinarian. At the same time he’d seen to it that the young veterinarian would be keeping Black Eye quartered and well cared for while the tendon healed.
When Sam had saddled the haughty roan, he led it over to Dr. Ross’ office and hitched its reins to the rail out front. As he walked up to the front door and reached for the brass doorknob, the big cur circled once, then plopped down on the porch to await his return. Walking inside, Sam found Maria sitting in a chair outside the treatment room, waiting while the doctor changed the dressing on the wounded man’s chest. She set a teacup down and stood upon Sam’s arrival.
“Is the rancher doing any better?” Sam asked, taking off his broad-brimmed sombrero. The wounded man, Owen Bleaker, owner of a small spread thirty miles from Creasy, had drifted in and out of consciousness ever since the ranger had brought him to Creasy. The man Parks had killed, Harold Red Herbert, had been Bleaker’s partner.
“Sí, he is better.” Maria nodded. “The bullet went through him clean. Dr. Ross says he will live if infection does not set in.” As she spoke she reached her hand out and brushed a strand of hair from the ranger’s forehead. “What about you? You look like you could use some rest.”
“I could use some rest,” the ranger said with a faint tried smile, “but I’ll have to settle for some strong hot coffee instead. I can’t stop, not as long as I know these four young men are taking the brunt of everything Buckshot Parks is doing out there.”
As the two talked back and forth, the doctor stepped out of the treatment room and shut the door quietly behind himself. He looked the ranger up and down from behind a pair of spectacles perched low on his nose. As if knowing what the ranger and Maria were talking about, he said to Sam, “I sure hope you find this son of a bitch who killed Red Herbert and did this to Bleaker.” Catching himself, he looked quickly at Maria and said, “Begging your pardon, ma’am.”
Maria only nodded curtly, accepting his apology. “We will catch him, Dr. Ross.” She paused, then asked, “Is Beth Ann going to be all right? She seemed terribly upset.”
The doctor sighed. “Yes, she will be all right. Like all of us in the healing arts, she hates to think that her good works might come to a bad end.”
“All the more reason for us to get under way and stop Stanton Parks from doing these fellows any more harm,” Sam said.
“Yes, I understand,” said the doctor. “Bleaker said to tell you the man rode away with Red Herbert’s big fifty rifle. It’s scoped and ready for long-range shooting.”
“Obliged for the tip,” said Sam.
“He would like to thank you personally before you leave,” said the doctor, “but I’m afraid he is back to sleep just now.” He gestured toward the front door. “So I’ll tell him I thanked you for him. . . . That will have to do for now.”
“Obliged again, Doctor,” said Sam. “I’ll come look in on him when we’ve finished with Parks and I return here for my horse.”
“I hope that shan’t be long, Ranger Burrack,” said the doctor as the two turned and walked toward the door.
“So do we, Doctor,” Maria said, looking back over her shoulder.
Out front at the hitch rail, the two stood for a moment while Sam produced the broken paper money band from his pocket and looked at it. “The veterinarian said there was a cowhand through here right after I brought Bleaker to town. Said the cowhand was on foot, carrying his saddle and gear. The cowboy told him he’d had to put his horse down from a snakebite.”
“Oh?” said Maria, listening to see where this was going.
“Yep,” Sam continued, “the horse doctor said he referred the man to the livery stable to buy himself a horse, but the man turned him down. The man asked why would he waste his money? There’d be a good horse waiting for him up the trail.”
“Davin Grissin?” Maria said, catching on immediately.
“Could be,” said Sam. “He’s had time to gather support and make a move in all this. After all, it was his money stolen”—he toyed with the money band—“even though it was wrapped in these new money bands that the bank in Santa Fe had only started to use right before they were robbed.”
“Are you saying you think Grissin had something to do with robbing the bank at Santa Fe?” Maria asked.
“I don’t know,” Sam replied. He put the paper money band away and unhitched the roan. “But Grissin is too rich to send money across this country unguarded . . . unless it was the law instead of the robbers he was worried about.”
The two swung up into their saddles, turned their horses and put them toward the north trail. The big cur sprang ahead of them and ran and circled and sniffed the ground, then loped on, leading them on a hunt.
Chapter 17
Jet Mackenzie kneeled beside a cool running spring just off the high trail he’d ridden throughout the past day and night. He dipped his bandanna into the bracing water and pressed it to the fierce exit wound the bullet had left in his upper right shoulder. When he heard the breaking of brush across the narrow stream, he looked up, but was unable to draw his Colt with his right hand. By the time he’d gotten the gun up with his wet left hand, the figure across the stream revealed himself.
“Mac?” said Tad Harper, looking surprised and happy to see him. Then his eyes went to the bloody wound and stopped there.
“Yeah, Tadpole, it’s me,” Mackenzie said, letting out a breath of relief. He holstered the gun awkwardly and struggled to get up.
“Hold on! Let me give you a hand,” said Harper, pulling his white-faced roan along by its reins across the shallow stream.
In the few seconds it took Harper to cross the water, Mackenzie made it up onto his feet. “I’m good,” he said, staggering a bit, then catching himself.
“You don’t look too good,” said Harper.
“I’m a lot better than I was,” said Mackenzie.
“How’d you get shot? Who shot you?” Harper asked, staring at the bloody wound.
“I don’t know who shot me,” said Mackenzie. “I had a sheriff tied down over a mule. Two riders found us and I got shot trying to get away. Leastwise the fellow over the mule said he was a sheriff. His story changed once I got the upper hand on things.” He dabbed the bandanna against the wound. “It’s stopped bleeding some, but my arm is stiff from it.” As he spoke he turned his head quickly toward the sound of another man walking through the brush.
“It’s all right,” said Harper, “that’s just Brewe
r. We met up on the trail this morning at daylight. I walked on ahead to the water just to play it safe.” He looked across the water into the brush and called out quietly to Jock Brewer.
“That was good thinking, Tadpole,” said Mackenzie.
“Was it?” Harper grinned. “See, I figured if one of us came ahead and got into trouble, the other would come and give him some backup—”
“I got it, Tadpole,” said Mackenzie, stopping him short. He gazed into the brush as Jock Brewer walked into sight leading his brown-speckled barb.
“Dang, Mac!” said Brewer upon seeing the wound in Mackenzie’s shoulder. He hurried across the stream leading his horse, then stopped and asked, “What happened? Are you shot?”
Mackenzie drew a patient breath, hating to have to repeat himself.
“He danged sure was shot,” said Harper on Mackenzie’s behalf. “He had a sheriff tied over a mule, didn’t you, Mac?”
“Where’s Holly?” Brewer asked with a wary look, disregarding Harper.
“I had to leave him in Creasy,” said Mackenzie. “But the last I saw of him he was being looked after by a pretty, young woman. . . .”
Mackenzie gave them all the details of the doctor’s daughter, of being caught off-guard in the livery barn and of knocking the sheriff out and being on his way taking the man far from town when he ran into the two riders. When he finished, Harper and Brewer looked at each other in astonishment.
“That was some time you and Thorpe had,” said Brewer, taking it all in. “I just hope ole Holly is all right there by himself.”
“At least I managed to get the sheriff away from him before I took this bullet,” said Mackenzie.
“You don’t think this sheriff’s posse might have caught Holly and taken him prisoner, do you?”
“I can’t swear to it, but I don’t think so,” said Mackenzie. “Fact is I don’t believe this sheriff had a posse—I ain’t convinced he was even a real sheriff,” he tacked on.
“Did you see his badge?” asked Brewer.
“Of course I saw his badge,” said Mackenzie, pressing the wet bandanna to the wound.
