by Jory Sherman
Maybe, he thought, it would come to him, that night, tomorrow, or sometime.
Baker was going to the Tecolote. Probably the man in the shadows across the street was going there, too. To meet with the man who had ridden the dun horse, a man named Moon. That was all he knew at the moment.
Or was it?
No, he knew a mite more. Charley Grimes might be at the Tecolote, too. That seemed to be a watering hole for criminals. The cantina was where Wayne Smith would be if he escaped from Denver. In fact, Lew thought, maybe Smith was already in Santa Fe. Would he have had time to pull off his robbery in Denver and get to Santa Fe by now? Maybe. It was possible.
Now, as he walked toward the cantina, Lew was glad that he had left Marylynn.
Although he had never been there, Lew knew that the Tecolote was no place for a woman, not the kind of woman Marylynn was.
And maybe, he thought, it was no place for him, either.
If Moon and Baker knew Grimes, along with the man in the shadows, then he was already outnumbered.
Grimes was the only one who knew who Lew was and that he had a price on his head.
Lew’s impulse just then was to turn right around and head back to his hotel. That would be the safe thing to do.
But Grimes was connected to Wayne Smith, and Wayne Smith had murdered Carol and her children.
The woman he loved.
There was a price on Smith’s head, too. But it wasn’t in gold or silver.
It was in blood.
15
U.S. MARSHAL HORATIO BLACKHAWK HATED TO ADMIT DEFEAT. But he had to admit that Wayne Smith had outsmarted him and the entire posse. It had been with a heavy heart that he was forced to send a telegram from Denver to the U.S. marshal in Santa Fe, saying that not only was Wayne Smith heading there, but he should keep on the lookout for Lew Wetzel Zane. He knew the marshal assigned to New Mexico, Cordwainer Vogel. Cord was a good man, but he was probably no match for Wayne Smith. So Blackhawk had told him to keep his eyes open and wait for his arrival. He had a hunch that if Vogel found Zane, he’d also find Smith.
There had been no payroll robbery at the Brown Palace Hotel. Armed lawmen from both Pueblo and Denver had been hoaxed by Smith. They had all been at the hotel when Smith and his men had robbed the Tabor Opera House, stealing an unknown amount of silver that Horace Tabor had hidden in a basement vault. The reason they didn’t know how much silver Smith had taken was because Haw Tabor wouldn’t divulge how much silver he had salted away from his rich Leadville mines.
Blackhawk had questioned Horace Tabor and his wife, Baby Doe, after the daring robbery.
“Those were the last silver bars from the Matchless,” Tabor said. “I was transporting them to my bank here in Denver when the bandits struck.”
“You didn’t expect this?” Blackhawk asked.
“Horace took precautions,” Baby Doe said.
“Yes, I had armed guards, and there was a certain amount of secrecy regarding the transfer.”
“Have you ever met Wayne Smith?” Blackhawk asked.
“No, sir,” Tabor said. “We never heard of him until you told us. Can you catch him, get my silver back?”
Blackhawk shook his head.
“This was very well planned, sir. Smith had cohorts stationed at various places with fresh horses.”
“Like the Pony Express,” Tabor said.
“Yes. The posse was hot on his trail south of Denver. But he and his men had fresh horses. The posse did not.”
“I’m offering a substantial reward,” Tabor said. “I want that silver back.”
“Yes, sir. We know where Smith is going. We’ll catch him.”
“I want to see him hang,” Tabor said.
Baby Doe’s eyes glittered at her husband’s words.
Blackhawk had made no promises regarding punishment. But he knew how powerful Tabor was in Denver. He had come to the plains in ’59, bought into some mines, acquired others. People said he had the “Midas touch,” except in his case, everything he touched turned to silver. He had built the opera house in Leadville and now had one in Denver. He had bought prime property in downtown Denver, along Sixteenth Street, and was now president of the Denver Chamber of Commerce.
Before he left, Tabor whispered something in Blackhawk’s ear.
“That would be quite an honor,” Blackhawk said. “I’ll do my best.”
Blackhawk had no idea how much silver had been stolen, but he gathered that it was a substantial amount. Tabor had put up a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for the return of the silver bars. That was big money anywhere, but in Denver, it was a small fortune.
Now, Blackhawk was wearing out leather heading for Santa Fe. In Pueblo, he had met with local law enforcement officers who had told him a strange tale about bodies found near Raton Pass.
“We identified a pilgrim, one Rex William Baxter, who had been traveling with his daughter, Marylynn Baxter,” Sheriff Alfredo Hernandez had said. “Then we found three dead men, all shot, who were part of Smith’s gang. They had left fresh horses for Smith and his cronies and were probably headed for Santa Fe, or another way station to leave more fresh horses.”
“What do you figure?” Blackhawk asked. “Who killed the outlaws, and do you know who they were?”
“We don’t know who killed them. We identified them: Calvin Weems, Fritz Gunther, and Billy Hatfield. They were well-known gunnies here in Pueblo. It snowed up there, but we found plenty of tracks that told us some of the story.”
“Let’s hear it,” Blackhawk said.
“Well, somebody killed Weems where we found Mr. Baxter’s body. Whoever killed Weems apparently rescued the Baxter girl, age about nineteen, near as we can figure. Them two rode on up the pass, and the other two gunnies jumped them. Whoever was with Marylynn got off his horse and went after them. We found their bodies in a place of concealment. Then, whoever shot them rejoined the other person, probably the girl, and they rode on over the pass.”
“Anything else?” Blackhawk was in a hurry to get to Santa Fe, but he wanted as much information as he could get.
“We found a cart that belonged to Baxter. We’re still going through it. Mostly household stuff, clothes and such. Pilgrims ought to know how dangerous that road is sometimes. Them two shouldn’t have been traveling all by their lonesomes.”
“Any idea who the other man was, the one who shot the Smith men?”
“No, but if you’re looking for him, he’s riding with that girl. Leading two riderless horses. I figure the outlaws had three mounts. Gal took one to ride, maybe. We figure she got out of that mess alive.”
And that was all that Blackhawk knew, but he did pick up the trail south of Raton Pass, learned in Las Vegas that Smith had gotten fresh horses there, and that a man named Jones had registered at a hotel with his wife.
Blackhawk smiled when he looked at the hotel register and saw the name. Ed Jones. He knew that this was the name of Seneca’s father. So, he had been right. Lew Zane was still a vigilante. He knew that it was Zane who had rescued Marylynn Baxter and killed those three outlaws. It had to be. And apparently, Zane had taken the girl under his wing.
Benny Rodriguez told Blackhawk about the horses.
“Mister Jones, he sell two horses to Hiram Fogarty.”
“Clerk at the hotel said there was another man here. A man named Charley Grimes.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Grimes. He have five horses. He took them somewhere and come back, then ride away.”
“What do you mean he took them somewhere?” Blackhawk asked.
“He buy a lot of food and some grain. He take the horses away. I don’t see them no more.”
“Where do you think he took them?”
“Maybe he sell them someplace.”
“What did Grimes want with Mr. Jones?”
“He say those horses Jones have belong to friends. He look at the brands.”
“And this Grimes let Jones sell two horses to Fogarty?”
“Yes. Jones tell
Grimes he knows his friends and they have new horses.”
So, Blackhawk thought, Zane talked himself out of that one. Grimes must be one of Smith’s men who furnished fresh horses. Five horses. So Wayne expected to have four men with him. What about those Zane killed? Were they supposed to be riding with Smith?
The puzzle was getting more complicated. But at least he had a line on Zane and the Baxter girl, and they, too, seemed to be headed for Santa Fe.
When he rode into Glorieta, Blackhawk knew, somehow, that the Baxter girl and Zane would stop there, even if it was only to buy more food. The town was small enough for him to cover it and not lose much time. He was elated to find that a pair matching their description had passed through, and, at the café, he got more than he bargained for when he questioned the waitress and cook.
“So, Lupita,” Blackhawk said, over a cup of coffee at the counter, “you recognized Lew Wetzel Zane when he was in here?”
“He had the beard, but he looked like the drawing on the paper, yes.”
“And there was a fight?”
“Yes. The cook, Pedro, he try to capture this outlaw.”
“And what happened?”
“The girl who was with this Zane, she took his gun and said she would shoot me. I had the shotgun, but I put it down.”
“And then what?”
“Pedro, he stop fighting. Zane and the girl, they rode away. This Zane, he take a flyer with him when he go.”
So Zane knew about the reward.
No trace of Smith and his men. Blackhawk figured he must be avoiding the main road, traveling cross country with his henchmen and the silver.
He rolled a smoke after leaving the café and rode out of Glorieta toward Santa Fe.
Zane could not know how much danger he was in. If he was planning to avenge Carol Smith’s death, he’d be outgunned and outnumbered.
Yes, Zane was a wanted man. And Blackhawk was bound to take him back to Arkansas to stand trial.
But he was rooting for Lew Zane.
He had always had a soft spot for the underdog.
And, right now, Lew Wetzel Zane was in more trouble than the law could throw on top of him.
Somehow, he had to find Zane before Zane found Wayne Smith.
What happened to Lew Zane shouldn’t be any of his business, Blackhawk thought. Smith was a much more dangerous man and should be his highest priority. But he was damned if he’d let Zane get eaten alive by a pack of wild dogs.
16
MARYLYNN SOAKED IN THE OAK TUB A LONG TIME AFTER SHE had scrubbed herself and washed her hair. She had awakened early, before dawn, her hands splayed and reaching out, touching the bed sheets, the pillows, searching for Lew in the dark. But she knew he was gone before she ever summoned the courage to arise and face the empty room.
She almost couldn’t believe that he would leave her. Were all men that way? Cold, unfeeling? Did not they have the same fires burning in them that she had? Her whole body sizzled with an electric burning at the sound of his voice. And when he touched her, no matter how slight the touch, or where on her body, she melted inside as if he had turned her molten. His kisses still burned on her lips, on her breasts, her tummy, and down between her thighs. When she closed her eyes, she could smell his manly scent, and when she opened them, she half expected him to be there, come back because of a longing inside him that was as unbearable as her own.
She emerged from the tub like some golden nymph as the morning sun shot shafts of light through the slatted windows. The water on her body glistened like crushed diamonds and silvery motes danced in the air as she wrapped herself in a towel and rubbed it over her sleek skin. Her hair hung in wet ringlets, like small ropes, and she rubbed hard to remove all the moisture. In her room, she dressed, despite her annoyance at putting on dirty clothes, clothes she had pounded and flapped to get the dust out of, but that still reeked of the desert and were heavy with its grit.
She knew what she was going to do that day, had planned it all out while she was soaking in the tub. She gathered up the Colt .45, holster, and gunbelt and wrapped it into a bundle and slipped it into one of the pillowcases. She went to the desk and told the clerk, a man she had never seen before, that she wished to pay for a week’s stay.
“You done paid for a week, missus. Did you want another week?”
“No. I—I’ll decide later,” she said.
She hadn’t known that Lew had paid her bill in advance. He must have done it when he left that morning. She struggled with the thought that there might be a hidden message in that act, but everything she came up with sounded ridiculous to her. Did that mean he was coming back, or that he wanted a week’s head start to put distance between them?
She ate breakfast in a little café on Ruiz Street, chorizo and huevos rancheros with a green chili sauce and a glass of goat’s milk. By that time, Santa Fe was all abustle, and she was fascinated as she walked along, looking at the faces of the Indians and Mexicans, the few white people who were out and about. She stopped in stores that sold dresses and looked at the clothing the other women wore. She went to a hardware store, Finch’s, on Calle Segundo, barely glancing at the merchandise. A woman stood behind the counter, her sturdy full body encased in a flowery dress, her hair streaked with gray and tied back in a bun. She looked Germanic, Marylynn thought, with her heavy features and thick neck.
Marylynn plopped the heavy pillowcase down on the counter.
“Do you sell guns here?” she asked.
“Guns?”
“I want to buy a pistol. A pistol a lady might carry.”
“Ah, no. We have some old rifles. No pistols.”
“Can you tell me where I might buy a pistol?”
“Do you want a new pistol, or one that has been used?”
“Well, I don’t want to pay a lot of money for one, and I have one to trade.”
“Ah, then you must go to a pawnshop, maybe. I will tell you where there is one that sells pistols. It is not far. It’s called Tesoro Pawnbrokers, It’s right next to the El Rincon Hotel.”
“If you would be kind enough to give me directions…”
“Most certainly. I must say, a young thing like yourself shouldn’t be fooling with guns.”
“Ah, it’s for my brother.”
“Oh, I see.”
The lady gave Marylynn directions to the pawnshop.
She meant to go right there, but there were so many shops, she began stopping in each one. She tried on dresses and pants, boots and handwoven shawls. She bought a pair of riding pants that fit snugly on her hips. Then she selected stout boots and a wide-brimmed hat. In another shop, she bought a plain dress that was form-fitting. She remembered Lew’s words about wearing clothing that would not interfere with her ability to draw and shoot a pistol.
It was late in the day, almost dark, when she began looking for Tesoro Pawnbrokers.
She found it easily enough as the sun’s rays were waning, and stood there for a moment in shadow, looking in the window at all the watches, field glasses, pistols, rifles, pots and pans, knives and jewelry, rings and bracelets, concho belts, and trade blankets.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man emerge from the hotel. Startled, she stepped into the recessed doorway and stared at Lew Zane emerging from the hotel. To conceal her face, she hefted the bundles in her arms, the goods she had bought wrapped in paper and tied tight with twine, the pillowcase resting heavy against her stomach. She stifled a gasp and her heart began beating with a faster pace. She felt her blood pound in her ears.
She saw him cross the street, glancing at a man standing by a horse. The man held a sawed-off shotgun at his side. Lew appeared not to have noticed the armed man, but she knew he had. She knew him well enough by now to know that he would notice such a man.
Someone came to the door while she was standing there.
“We’re closing in five minutes,” a man said.
Marylynn gasped and turned around at the unexpected sound of his voice.
“No, wait,” she said. “I’m coming in.”
“Hurry it up,” the man said. “You hiding from somebody, young lady?”
She slipped into the store and let the bundles fall away from her face.
“No…I—I just…”
“Never mind. You see something in the winder you wanted?”
He was a florid-faced man with a large bulbous nose, a pinched mouth, a razor-thin moustache that looked as if it had been drawn with a charcoal pencil, and sideburns that fanned out at the bottoms like chisels. He wore a blue chambray shirt and striped trousers, and suspenders that cut into his shoulders like freight straps. His shoes were scuffed and unshined, a pale shade of brown.
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I want to purchase a pistol and I have a six-gun to trade, a Colt.”
“Let’s see what you have, then we can look at what you want. Follow me back to the counter, young lady.”
Marylynn bristled. The man couldn’t have been much over thirty himself. She knew condescension when she saw it.
She laid the pillowcase on the glass-topped counter and slid from it the pistol with its gunbelt coiled around it.
“Yep, that’s a Colt, all right,” the man said. “In .45 caliber?”
“Yes.”
“Loaded?”
“I, uh, yes.”
“Dangerous to bring a loaded pistol into a commercial establishment such as this,” he said. “Step back and I’ll take a look.”
Marylynn took a half step backward, away from the counter, and the man unwound the gunbelt and slid the Colt from its holster. He opened the gate and put the hammer on half cock. He ejected all six cartridges, which fell on a felt pad he slipped under them so they didn’t rattle when they struck.
He took a small cotton wad from a box on the counter and tucked it into one of the cylinders. Then he held the pistol up to the strongest light available and peered down the barrel. He sniffed and made sucking sounds with his mouth that made him seem like an asthmatic.
“All right. It’s clean, anyways, and the barrel seems to be okay. Action works. Trigger pull not too strong. Double action, which is good. How much do you want for it?”
