“Cost you another nickel for a cold one,” the bartender said.
“I guess I’ll nurse it for a spell longer.”
“Still heard nothing, huh?”
“Not a word.”
“You can’t trust politicians, I say. Even the president. Bunch of crooks, if you ask me.”
The bartender wiped the bar with a towel.
“You take my cousin, now, or was he my second cousin? Hell, I can’t recollect, but it don’t matter. Thing is, he was hung for a chicken thief up Missouri way, and it was politicians that done it. The mayor and the sheriff and them. Yep, politicians every last one of them.”
“Hard way to go, for a few chickens,” Battles said.
“That’s the attitude I took when I got the news,” the bartender said. “I wrote a letter telling the mayor that my cousin was true blue and a Mason. Not that it done any good. They strung him up anyway.”
Outside it was dry hot and dust devils did their dervish dance in the street. A huge railroad clock above the bar ticked seconds into the room, and an early-bird saloon girl picked her way through the opening bars of a Chopin étude on an out-of-tune piano.
Earlier the girl had cast a speculative glance on Battles, but her experienced eye pegged him as just another down-on-his-luck drifter and she ignored him.
“Hung for stealing chickens,” Battles said. “Well, my, my.”
“Yep, chickens it was.”
Pleased at Battles’s sympathy and interest, the bartender refilled his glass and set it down in front of him without comment.
“Araucanas,” the bartender said.
“Huh?” Battles said.
“The breed of chicken my cousin, or second cousin, stole. They was called Araucanas,” the bartender said.
“Well, you don’t say,” Battles said.
“Good chickens, the Araucanas,” the bartender said.
“Ain’t worth dying for, though,” Battles said.
“I know. Damned politicians,” the bartender said.
Three men stepped into the saloon, slapping off trail dust from their canvas slickers.
They were all tall men with big mustaches and unfriendly eyes. They wore holstered Colts, belted high where they’d be handy on a horse, and one of them carried a ten-gauge Greener.
“What can I get for you boys?” the bartender said.
The men ignored him.
All three stared hard at Battles and he figured if this came down to a fight, he didn’t care for the odds.
“You Matt Battles?” the man with the shotgun asked.
“Who wants to know?” Battles said.
“Jim Baxter, Texas Rangers.”
“You have word for me?” Battles said, brightening.
“You Matt Battles?” Baxter repeated.
“Yes, I’m Deputy United States Marshal Matt Battles.”
The shotgun came up fast and the other two whipped out their Colts with considerable speed.
“Battles, I’m arresting you for robbing the Cattlemen’s and Mercantile Bank in Pecos Station and killing a teller—”
“A poor Swede boy,” another man said.
“And for the murder of a posse member and the wounding of two others.”
Matt Battles laid his glass on the bar.
“Oh, hell,” he said.
Don’t miss another exciting Western adventure in the USA Today bestselling series!
DEAD MAN’S RANCH
A Ralph Compton Novel by Matthew P. Mayo
Coming from Signet in March 2012.
Mortimer Darturo shook his head and waved away the cards offered him. He rapped his chest and worked up a low belch, then beckoned the fat barmaid. A good girl for remembering, he thought, as she set before him a whiskey in milk. She turned to go, but he grabbed her thick wrist and waved a finger at the other three men also seated at the baize table. She nodded and left. She was afraid of him, he knew, for her eyes, the color of a high-summer sky, looked liquid, on the verge of tears, her lips set to scream. Good.
He raised the squat glass to his mouth and looked over the rim at the other three. To a man, they looked at him, unbidden disgust sneering their mouths. He smiled as he sipped. Keep them guessing, he thought, and almost laughed.
The girl brought the drinks to his game-mates. They each raised their glass to him and sipped. Fine, fine, fine, he thought. Drink and talk. Get to it. He would sit out this hand. The belch was the least of his worries. He wanted to hear more from the loudmouth lawyer sitting across from him. Mort sensed there was something boiling up in the little fat man, itching to be told. The night was still green and Mort was still sober and this man had something to reveal. Many times in the past he’d heard useful information at the games tables just because he listened.
A tall man in a gray hat and striped gray suit immediately to Darturo’s left arranged his bad cards two, three times. They won’t get any better no matter how often you rearrange them, thought Mort. This much I know. I’ve tried. Then the man cleared his throat, sent an expert stream of brown chew juice dead into a half-full spittoon by his chair legs, and said, “You were saying, about New Mexico Territory, I mean ...” He nodded toward the little fat lawyer in the green suit. The lawyer nodded back, barely looking up from his cards.
Go ahead and talk, thought Mort. Talk before the booze makes you quiet and sad. For surely yours is a sad little life. He almost smiled then, but instead he concentrated on making the man talk.
As if to prove that such a thing can be forced, the green-suited lawyer downed the last of his drink and said, “New Old May-hee-co, yes. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, well,” said the man who spoke first. He continued shuffling his five cards. “I have to sell my wares elsewhere soon and I wonder what the situation with the savages is like these days. Might try my hand south of here.”
The third man, a scruffy character in a greasy buckskin shirt that looked to Darturo as if it had been dipped in a gut pile and then dried, said, “You’d do as well to stick with Denver. This town’s got it all.”
“And what makes you so expert?”
“Never said I was expert at nothin’, but I been down to New Mex before and it ain’t no treat. Can’t trap a critter to save my ass down there. Ain’t a cent to be had thataways, leastwise not from pelts, no, sir.”
The green-suited lawyer spoke up. “I cannot speak of pelts, naturally.” He winked at the men. “But regarding land, I beg to differ, sir.” He pulled the chewed cigar nub from his mouth and set it on the table edge.
It looks like something a sick dog would have left in the alley, thought Mort. Now continue talking, he urged as he stared at the man.
“I have a client down there. He’s a landowner of righteous proportions, and besides being dead ...” This last comment seemed to him a funny thing, for he snorted through his nose, then apologized. “He was my client. Now he’s just a dead landowner ... or something like that. Big mess with his family, though. God, remind me never to have children. Always grubbing for money....” He set his cards down, facedown, and thumped the table as if he were in court.
You are drunk and a fool, thought Darturo. But keep on talking, little man, Mort urged him with his mind, with his eyes. Keep talking.
“Kids ain’t worth the time, if my client’s life is anything of an indication.... Prime land all over the good Lord’s creation and what does he get? He’s dead and his beneficiaries can’t find their asses with both hands....” This was funnier to him than his last funny statement, and the little fat lawyer laid his head right on the poker table and laughed, pounding the surface with a plump fist.
“You ain’t gonna play, then call out. Otherwise, I take it as an open offer to let me see your cards. So here.” The smelly trapper slapped down his cards. “I call.” He grinned.
Darturo grinned too. I want to hear more before the night is through, he thought. Now that I know there is more worth hearing. For maybe I need a new plan, a new way of doing things. A new way around
the old tree, as the man once said. Hell, thought Mort. Why go all the way around it? Why not just cut down the tree?
Maybe it is time I find a place to call home, a ranch perhaps. He had taken things that were plenty bigger than the deed to a ranch, so why should this be any different? After all, I am a powerful man, am I not? And all powerful men need a place where they operate from. And if the ranch happened to be one of the best in the region, and one of the biggest, too, naturally, then who am I, Mortimer Darturo, to argue? Perhaps I will become a judge, for that is what land barons do. He almost laughed, even as a plan flowered in his mind, opening as if in full, hot sun after a soaking rain.
Two hours later, in an alley a few buildings down the street from the saloon, Mortimer Darturo slipped a thin, three-inch blade in and out of the drunk attorney’s gut five times before the man thought to scream. Red bubbles rose from the fat mouth that opened and closed like the lips of a fish. Every time it’s the same, thought Mort. Like jabbing a sack of meal. Would no one ever lash back? Have they all grown so soft as to take such a thing as their own killing as something not to be bothered with? He sighed. For as long as he lived, Mort knew that he was destined to be disappointed by people. He would never understand them. Never.
“It is hard to speak when your throat is so full, huh?” Light spiking down from a whore’s upstairs window that overlooked the narrow alley let Darturo stare into the man’s wide eyes. I made this happen, thought Mort. It is only right that I am the last thing he sees. When the lids relaxed, Mort let the fat little lawyer ease to the dirt, wiped the blade on the dead man’s sleeve, and as he straightened his own jacket he looked up at the window. Nothing shaded the world from such a private act that, from the looks of things, was nearing its end.
He half smiled and thumped his chest, working up a fresh belch. “Animals,” he said as the gas bubble emerged. As he strolled from the alley, wiping the blade clean on the inner hem of his frock coat, Mort snorted a laugh. He walked to the livery, pockets filled with fresh cash and his mind filled with a sudden urge to see New Mexico Territory.
The steel wheels of the Santa Fe and Rio Grande Western screeched low and long as they churned to a stop. Steam valves released, pluming at the ground and swirling the dust.
The last passenger to step down from the train’s club car stood on the gravel, an oversized white kerchief pressed to his face, his wide chest convulsing in coughs.
“Who’s the dandy?”
The station agent squinted through the dust, looked down at a note in his hand, then up again at the stranger.
“I said ... who’s the dandy?” The chunky little man speaking looked up at the station agent from his seat on the nail keg.
“Huh?” said the agent, still squinting at the stranger, who hadn’t moved but was now staring at the brocade bag just dropped at his feet. “You say something, Squirly?”
The man on the keg crossed his feet and leaned back. “Nah, nah. You know me, Mr. Teasdale. I don’t speak unless spoken to.”
The agent looked down at his companion with raised eyebrows. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and retrieve the man’s bag? If it’s who I expect, then we ought to welcome him, make him feel at home.”
The pudgy man looked as if he’d just been forced to drink from a spittoon. “Just who were we expectin’?”
But the station agent had already gone back inside his office for his official coat and hat. Squirly looked again at the stranger, who seemed well and truly lost. He stood like a lost steer, thirty yards down the track, and finally looked back at Squirly.
“This better be worth my time.” Squirly grunted to his feet and clumped down the platform, the few remaining fringes on his old buckskin coat wagging with each step.
“Well, this wire told me to expect ...” Teasdale looked down at the nail keg to which he was speaking and shook his head.
Squirly grabbed the leather loop handles of the man’s bag and made for the platform. “Teas—ah, the station agent tells me you’re expected.” He didn’t turn as he spoke.
“See here.” The stranger caught up with Squirly, grabbing his arm with a gloved hand. “Just where do you think you’re going with my luggage?”
The pudgy man looked down at the hand on his arm and said, “Was headed for the platform but now looks like I’m headed for the hoosegow.”
“If that’s a hotel, then—”
“It ain’t. It’s the jail.”
“The jail? Why?”
“’Cause I’m ’bout to drop you like a sack of cornmeal, mister. Less’n you back off.”
Then he felt the bag being pulled from his grasp from behind. “What the...”
“I’ll take it from here, Squirly Ross. Thanks for your help.”
The squat older man rasped a pudgy hand across his chin. “Dry work, Teasdale. Luggin’ them fancies.” He gestured at the woven bag.
“What’s going on here?” said the stranger.
He was a tall man, the agent noted. Broad in the shoulders, and judging from his light whiskering, he had the red hair to boot. Hard to tell under that derby hat, so tight was it pulled down. He’d give him that much, it was a windy day.
“Welcome to Turnbull, sir.”
The man ignored Teasdale’s outstretched hand and leaned out past the edge of the little depot building to look up the main street. A fresh gust whipped the mouse-colored derby from his head and carried it like a runty, determined tumbleweed straight up the dirt track.
Teasdale smiled and looked at Squirly, then nodded at the young man’s hair.
Squirly squinted, looked hard at the young man. “It ain’t...”
Teasdale smiled, nodded slightly, and rocked back on his heels, a hand in his pocket.
The young stranger turned back to them with a mix of surprise and scowl on his broad face, green eyes ablaze, and the wind tousling a mass of red hair.
“It is!” Squirly took a step back, hand over his mouth.
“My hat ... the wind ...” The young man waved a broad hand up the street in the direction the hat had traveled.
Station Agent Teasdale stepped forward and, smiling, said, “Welcome to Turnbull, Mr., um...” He looked down at the note in his hand. “Mr. Middleton, that’s it. Welcome home.”
“I assume you received my wire,” said the tall young man.
“Yes, indeedy.” Teasdale shook the note as if drying it. “And I took the liberty of reserving a room at the hotel for you.”
The young man turned his back on them once again and held his hand up, visoring his eyes and staring up the street. A chestnut horse stood at a hitch rail, bowed against the gale. Dim light shone through the darkened panes of the windows in front of them. On the opposite side of the street, two mules drooped before their flat wagon, each with a rear leg canted. Beyond them two women progressed up the boardwalk, skirts snapping like laundry on a line, with hands clamped on their respective headgear. The thinner, taller of the two had on a broad-brim hat, like a man’s. The other, thicker and squatter, wore a bonnet. Low, dark clouds hugged the horizon and rode the little town proper as if tethered there.
“That was a waste of time, sir. I won’t require a hotel room.” The tall, redheaded stranger smirked at the station agent. “I am heading out to the ranch today. Now, where can I hire a hansom or some such conveyance to bring me there?”
“This just keeps getting better.” Squirly snorted and patting Teasdale on the sleeve, stepped off the platform. “Dry work, Teas, but I figure I been paid.” He hunched up, his open coat flapping, wisps of silver hair trailing behind his bald head like ragged yarn. As he trudged up the street, shaking his head, the wind carried his voice back to them. “Hire a hansom ... Ha! Wait’ll I tell the boys.”
The station agent cleared his throat. “Fact is, Mr. Mac—Mr. Middleton, you need the better part of a day just to make it to your father’s property. You’re in luck, the Maligno’s passable lately. With a good horse and an early start tomorrow, you can make it to the ran
ch itself not too long after dark. Stays light late now, so that’ll help you.”
“I don’t plan on being here that long. I made this god-awful journey despite the insistence of my grandfather to the contrary and at the urging of a pathetic Denver attorney who claimed to represent the dead man’s interests. I will deal with estate matters, liquidate what I can, and address the remaining headaches from the comfort and safety of my home in Providence, where I fully expect to return within two weeks’ time.”
He drew himself up to his considerable full height and tilted his head to one side, regarded Teasdale as one might a troubled child who doesn’t understand the explanation given him. “Now, before I embark on my trip to the property, perhaps you will be so good as to tell me at what time tomorrow the next train arrives.”
Teasdale could only think of the fact that Squirly was right. “First time for everything,” he said in a low voice as he hefted the bag and headed down the street.
“See here,” said the young man, laying a big hand on Teasdale’s arm. “Where are you going with my luggage?”
Teasdale smiled up at the young man and said, “The next train? Why, that’s scheduled to pull up, oh boy, let’s see... Yes, that would be a week from today. So, next Tuesday, Mr. Middleton.”
“What do you mean? I have appointments to keep, I have important work to do!” As he spoke he followed the older man. “See here,” he said again, but the words whipped from his mouth in a gust of bitter wind as soon as they were uttered.
Minutes later, Teasdale led him to a set of wide wooden steps. The older man bent down and plucked something from the shadows beside the staircase, slapped at it a few times, then presented it to the young man. “Your hat, sir.”
For a brief moment Teasdale saw unadorned delight in the young man’s eyes. Then their gazes met and Middleton snatched the dented, dusty thing and mumbled, “Thank you.”
Teasdale smiled and led the way up the steps and into the foyer of a narrow, two-story building with the simple word HOTEL painted on the facade. He plopped the tall man’s bag in front of the sign-in counter. “Heya, Harv,” he said.
Ralph Compton Slaughter Canyon (9781101559499) Page 19
