Lookout Hill (9781101606735)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  As they talked, Sam had taken a small pot from inside his bedroll, poured water from his canteen into it and set it beside the growing campfire. Steam curled as the water bubbled on the fire side of the pot.

  “I know it is a lot to ask, Ranger,” Lupo finally said.

  “Then don’t ask,” Sam replied before the Mexican agent could finish. “I’ll give you the cover you need.” He paused before saying, “How do you know Wilton Marrs was telling you the truth, that the Cadys will be attacking the mines this week?”

  “He has not lied to me before—that is all I can go on in this line of work. He told me the Cadys know about the gold but they are keeping it a secret from their men. If they successfully raid the mines, the gold will be in their hands. This is my only chance to get the gold back to my government.”

  Sam heard urgency and stifled pain in his voice.

  “I understand,” he said. “I’m after Bellibar and Siebert. They’ll be there. So will I.” He picked up the pot of water and set it beside Lupo. “Now throw off the poncho. Let’s see the damage.”

  Lupo lifted the faded poncho with the Ranger’s help. Seeing the bloody shirt and the crimson bandages behind the opened bib, Sam kept the worst of his opinion to himself.

  “He got you good, Easy John,” he said.

  “Sí, he got me good,” Lupo replied, looking down at himself. “And now we clean the wounds and cover them”—he made a determined expression—“and back to work.”

  Chapter 18

  In the middle of the night, Hodding Siebert felt himself being watched, hovered over by someone or something that had no business being there. Cautiously, he opened his eyes just enough to see the healing woman standing over him in her long black robe. Uh-oh…Above her he saw two small wispy birds circle and touch down lightly onto her shoulders. They stepped back and forth in place, as silent as death—no chirping, these birds, he noted.

  No fluttering of wings, nothing….

  He felt a cold sweat form at the back of his hairline. There was something eerie and wrong about those quiet birds.

  I—I killed you, he said to the hooded woman, or did he only think he said it aloud?

  He batted his eyes, sitting up with his Remington drawn from under his saddle, cocked and aimed. Only now the healing woman was gone. He stared across the circle of low campfire light in time to see one of the silent little birds go skittering off into the darkness, vanishing into the brushy terrain.

  “Damn!” he murmured, the Remington out at arm’s length.

  From across the campfire, standing guard with his trademark shotgun, Hayworth Benton had looked around at the sound of the gun hammer cocking. He swung around with his ten-gauge shotgun at port arms as Siebert rose from his blanket, the gun lowered now but only a little.

  “What’s going on over there?” Benton asked.

  Siebert just started walking in the direction of the small fleeing bird, staring straight ahead as if in a trance.

  “I know it’s you!” he shouted. “You’re dead! I killed you, remember?”

  “What the hell?” said Benton. He raised his big ten-gauge instinctively.

  The commotion caused the other men to spring up from their sleep; more gun hammers cocked.

  “Don’t shoot! I’ll get him!” Bellibar shouted, up and running across the campsite just as Siebert left the circle of firelight and stepped away into the rock and high brush.

  But as he hurried into the brush, he saw Siebert stop and look all around.

  Jesus! Now what? Bellibar thought.

  “Aces!” he called out. “It’s me, Bobby Hugh.”

  But Siebert didn’t reply. Instead he listened intently to the sound of deep chuffing and the stomp of a hoof. Got you!

  He saw the black silhouette of the woman’s big mare standing bareback in a pale glow of moonlight.

  “Die, you ornery bitch!” he shouted, raising the Remington. But as he started firing wildly, he watched the black silhouette gallop away, out of sight into the greater blackness.

  Twenty feet behind Siebert, Bellibar threw himself flat to the ground, seeing streaks of gunfire loosed in every direction.

  “For God’s sake, Aces, stop shooting that damn gun! You’re going to hit somebody!” Bellibar shouted, drawing his Colt from force of habit, ready to kill Siebert if he had to, to keep Siebert from killing him.

  “It’s her, Bobby Hugh!” Siebert shouted back at him. “It’s her and that blasted mare!”

  “Oh, Jesus!” said Bellibar, rising, hurrying forward in a crouch, hoping to shut him up before the others heard his mad ramblings.

  “It’s her, that damned witch I killed!” Siebert said, turning toward him in a haze of burned powder. “Her and that ornery, hex-casting, evil-eyed mare, I swear to God it is!” the empty Remington hung smoking in his limp hand.

  “Quiet, Aces!” Bellibar whispered harshly. “They’ll all hear you.”

  “I don’t give a damn who hears me! It’s that dead witch!” Siebert shouted even louder. “I think I winged the mare, which I’m thinking is really a demon up from hell! I’m going after them both! I’m not stopping until—”

  Behind them at the edge of the clearing, the men looked at each other when they heard Siebert fall silent beneath the thump of gunmetal against skull bone. A moment passed as they listened to the struggling sound of Bellibar dragging his knocked-out partner through the dried brush.

  “He’s a sleepwalker, that’s all,” Bellibar said, trying to play the situation down.

  “Sleepwalker, my ass,” said Fletcher. “I know a straight-up idiot when I see one—he needn’t slobber on his saddle horn to prove it.”

  On the ground, Siebert came around with a groan, raising his hand to the side of his head. Bellibar had taken his smoking Remington and carried it stuck down behind his belt.

  “Boss, I never seen nothing like it,” said Benton. “He come up from his blanket with the strangest look I ever saw…except once, that is,” he added with hesitance.

  “Except once…?” said Fletcher Cady.

  He and all the men looked at Hayworth Benton as Siebert tried to sit up in the dirt.

  “Back in Tennessee, when I was a boy,” Benton said, “there was a man who was known to be possessed by the devil.”

  Fletcher Cady just stared at him with a raised hand, stopping him.

  “All right, everybody back to sleep,” he said. “We’re getting up and riding out in two hours.”

  Two of the men grumbled and looked all around; one man crossed himself. Fletcher Cady and his brother, Bert, started to turn and walk away. But Fletcher stopped and looked at Bellibar.

  “I heard him ranting about witches, demons,” he said.

  “Sleepwalker,” Bellibar insisted. “He’ll be all right, though. I’ll see to it.”

  “Damn right you will,” said Fletcher Cady. “We’ve got a busy night tonight and a busier day tomorrow.” He pointed a finger at Bellibar. “If he’s not all right, you’re going to walk the idiot off into the rocks and clean his ears out with Benton’s ten-gauge.” He walked away, grumbling to his brother, “I expect everybody in the hill country heard all that shooting—sleepwalker, my ass.”

  “You said you were done with it, Aces,” Bellibar hissed down at his partner, who sat slumped with a hand to the side of his head.

  “I was—I mean, I am, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert. “But this was her—her and the blasted Belleza. It was no dream.”

  “Belleza?” said Bellibar.

  “It means ‘beauty,’” said Siebert

  “I know what it means,” said Bellibar. “You named this mare?”

  “No, it was already her name. She hated me right off, Bobby Hugh,” he added, shaking his throbbing head. “Maybe she saw something evil in me, like Benton saw in that fellow back in Tennessee.”

  “Stop it,” said Bellibar. “It’s gone far enough. You’re not possessed, leastwise no more than the rest of us. She saw how much you hate animals, that’s all.”
He reached a hand down to help Siebert to his feet.

  “It’s not that I hate animals, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said, rising. “It’s just that…well, maybe I do hate them at that,” he admitted after a short consideration of the matter. “But that’s not it….”

  “Whatever it is, keep it to yourself,” said Bellibar. “You got everybody wanting to kill you.”

  The two started walking back to their bedrolls; the other gunmen were already settled back down. Hayworth Benton had sat back down by the campfire where he’d been seated before.

  “When I get the chance, I’m going to talk to that fellow, Benson,” said Siebert. “He seems to know about things like this—” He stopped short and looked around when he realized Bellibar was no longer beside him. His partner stood back, staring at him in the flicker of firelight.

  “Are you done with it, Aces?” he asked in a stern tone of voice.

  Siebert squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists tight, as if struggling to wrench something loose from deep inside his brain. After a moment he let out a long, strained breath.

  “I’m done with it,” he said. “Give me back my gun.”

  “I’ll give it back to you when we get to Copper Gully,” Bellibar said with resolve. “You won’t be needing it before then.”

  Siebert seethed but said nothing. He had the small Colt Pocket, but it only had one shot left in it. If he really needed to, he could shoot somebody in the head and take his gun. That would have to do for now.

  A sprawling hacienda that had been built for Edgar Randolph “E. R.” Pettigo sat far back behind the Pettigo-American Mining facilities, away from the noise and the smell of the copper-smelting furnaces. The large house had been built atop the interlocking stone and mortar foundations and breastworks of an ancient Spanish fortress. The stone windowsill where E.R. set his mug of coffee measured a full two feet thick. He stood bowed slightly, his palms spread atop the windowsill supporting him, looking out through the darkness in the direction of the plank and stone building where the wagon sat under guard.

  “Damn it, Jennings,” he said, “there could be no worse time for this to happen.” He raised a palm, made a fist and pounded it solidly on the sill. Ash broke and fell from the cigar in his mouth. “What the devil was he thinking? Can this be what they teach these young men in their fine Eastern universities?”

  “In all fairness to young Mr. Pettigo, sir,” said Denver Jennings, “Dale doesn’t know about the gold. I’m certain if he did he wouldn’t have made that fool sheriff. He doesn’t take losing a payroll as serious as losing all that Mexican gold…if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”

  Jennings sat in a pinto-hide-covered chair, a glass of bourbon in his hand, a cigar hanging between his fingers.

  E. R. Pettigo slumped a little and shook his head. Then he stood up, picked up his coffee mug and faced Jennings.

  “I never wanted him to have to see this side of me. My fortune has been untarnished for many years. I wanted him to see me as a completely honest baron of commerce and industry.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Jennings, “with all respect, is there really such a thing as a completely honest baron of industry? Has there ever been?” He offered a knowing half grin and stuck the cigar into his mouth.

  E. R. Pettigo sighed and gave a tired smile.

  “I wanted there to be, someday,” he said. “Back when I was a young man starting out…I always hoped that someday after my fortune was secure, I could turn my business interests completely legitimate, clean it up, keep it upstanding.” He wagged a finger. “That was what I wanted to bequeath my son. Something he could be proud of.” He paused for a moment. “But when you brought this Mexican gold deal to me, how could I say no?”

  “You would have been a fool to turn it down, sir,” said Jennings.

  “Oh, would I?” said Pettigo, a little ice in his tone.

  “You know how I mean it, sir,” said Jennings, sipping his bourbon.

  “Yes, I do,” said Pettigo. “The fact is, I saw this big opportunity lying in wait and I could not turn it down. A man never turns down free money, I don’t give a damn how rich he’s got.” He gave a dark little chuckle and tipped his coffee mug as if in a toast to greed.

  Denver Jennings joined in, raising his bourbon glass in the salute. They both drank, completing their toast.

  “If I might say so, sir,” said Jennings, “I wouldn’t worry too much about what young Mr. Pettigo thinks about your stolen gold deal. From what I’ve seen of Dale, he has an itch for adventure, along with his thirst for making a fortune. Most likely he would think no less of you. To be honest, I don’t understand how you’ve kept him from knowing about it.”

  “He trusts me, Denver,” said Pettigo. “I told him the wagon is loaded with crates of ancient Mexican artifacts. Many of the crates near the tailgate actually are loaded on top with some old broken pottery, beads and such”—he shrugged—“things that he thinks are priceless to me, but not particularly so to anyone else.”

  “The same thing I tell the men I have guarding it,” Jennings said. “I called it Mexican junk.” He gave a chuckle. “I have checked the load after every guard detail. No one has tampered with the crates since Junior Baugh tried to.”

  “Yes, poor Junior Baugh,” said Pettigo, “a classic case of curiosity killing the cat.”

  “Yep, it was too bad to have to kill him, sir, but we couldn’t have him finding out, spreading the news all over the place.” He paused, then said, “As for Dale knowing about it, sir, I don’t think he would ever—”

  “He’s to never know, Denver,” said E.R., cutting him off, “and I mean that most adamantly.”

  “Of course, sir, I understand,” said Jennings. He set the glass of bourbon down on a side table and leaned forward, getting down to business.

  “Talk to me, Denver,” Pettigo said, stepping closer, sensing something more was on his mind.

  “Here’s the way I look at it,” said Jennings. “At first I was worried about Dale making this saddle tramp sheriff. But gold aside, it’s like Dale said: it’s better having somebody between us and the Lookout Hill boys. Besides, we’ve got Tiggs and the Russian watching over him, and I even sent Ridge and the half-breed down to check on them. I let Ridge know he’d get a hundred-dollar bonus if Hughes ended up dead without anybody knowing who did it.”

  “Wise thinking, Denver,” said Pettigo. “Dale would never have to know we had anything to do with it.” He nodded, then stopped and said with concern, “Are you sure Ridge can handle it?”

  “Newton Ridge is an old hand at secret assassins,” said Jennings. “I have faith in his work.” He shrugged. “Something happens he doesn’t get it done, you give me the word, I’ll ride down and stick a bullet in Hughes’ head myself—two or three if it suits you.”

  “That may well be the remedy, Denver, if Ridge doesn’t satisfy our request,” said Pettigo, folding his hands behind his back in contemplation. “But for now I am more interested in getting the gold off this hilltop without the Cadys knowing about it than I am in killing this saddle tramp sheriff.”

  “Of course, I understand, sir,” said Jennings.

  “I’m thinking about moving the wagon out of here, making a night move straight down the gully,” said Pettigo. “What do you think of the idea?”

  Jennings considered it for a moment, puffing his cigar. “We’ve got guards posted all along the gully, sir,” he said, “so we’d get word the second they see any sign of the Cadys.” He nodded. “There’s no reason why it shouldn’t work. The gully trail is dangerous traveling of a night. But with good mounted guards accompanying the load, a good man at the reins, I see no great problem in doing it.”

  “I’m glad to hear that you agree, Denver,” said Pettigo, “because I would like for you to be the man at the reins.”

  “Me, sir?” Jennings looked surprised.

  “Yes, you. Why not you?” said Pettigo. “I trust you more than any mercenary I have working for
me.”

  “I’m honored, sir, and of course I’m glad to do it,” Jennings said. “I just thought you might want me in a saddle, keeping the other mounted guards on alert.”

  Pettigo smiled, his hands still folded behind his back like some general at parade rest.

  “That would be me leading the mounted guards, Denver,” he said.

  “Sir…” Jennings shook his head slowly. “With all respect, is that a good idea, you leading the guards?”

  “Why not?” said Pettigo. “I’ve led men all my life—men of commerce, businessmen. Some of them pretty rough characters, I can tell you.”

  “I have no doubts about you, sir,” said Jennings. “But this is not the sort of thing you’re used to being involved in.”

  “You’d be greatly surprised at what I’ve been involved in, years ago,” said Pettigo.

  “Years ago, sir,” said Jennings, still trying to make him see good reasoning. “Again, with all due respect, this is the sort of thing a man needs to be doing all the time to stay game-sharp and gun-ready. You’ll get no second chance with this should you happen to run into the Cadys along the way—”

  “I will be leading the mounted guards, Denver,” Pettigo said more firmly. “That’s my decision. With no further discussion on the matter, let’s lay our plans and get cracking, shall we?”

  No further discussion…

  Jennings looked at him, realizing as he should have realized all along where Dale Pettigo got his hardheadedness, his arrogance. It must be a Pettigo family trait, he told himself. But seeing there was no point in arguing with the old man, he took a breath, calmed himself and said, “Yes, sir, let’s get cracking.”

  Chapter 19

  The Ranger and Juan Lupo had both their eyes fixed in the direction of the single pistol firing in the distance. But when the gunfire ended, the two only looked at each other knowingly and turned back to the matter at hand.

  In the campfire light, Sam had taken strips of fresh cloth torn from a spare shirt and washed them in hot water. He’d hung them to dry near the fire while he’d washed Lupo’s wounds, stitched the deeper gashes together with needle and thread from a small sewing tin he carried in his saddlebags. Lupo sucked in a breath of pain but made no complaint as the Ranger stuck the needle through his flesh.