The Pinkerton Job

by J. R. Roberts

  “They’re up ahead, maybe a mile,” Horn said.

  “How many?”

  “Looks like nine or ten.”

  Siringo punched the air and said, “We had it figured right. Sandusky and Anderson have ridden on ahead to Mexico.”

  “All right,” Clint said, “what are they doing right now?”

  “Arguin’.”

  “What?” Siringo asked.

  “That’s what it looks like they’re doin’,” Horn said. “Arguin’, fightin’ with each other. The cows are just millin’ around.”

  “Anybody on watch?” Siringo asked.

  “Nobody,” Horn said. “Right now they’re mostly standin’ around yellin’ at each other. A few of them are on horseback.”

  Clint and Siringo exchanged a glance and the detective said, “Sounds perfect.”

  “Let’s go have a look,” Clint said.

  They mounted up and followed Horn for just about a mile, when he pointed ahead.

  “Down there,” he said.

  “We should go on foot,” Siringo said.

  “It don’t matter,” Horn said. “They won’t see us ’til it’s too late. In fact, you can hear ’em from here.”

  They fell silent and both Siringo and Clint could hear the raised voices.

  “Let’s go,” Siringo said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  In the end they decided that Clint and Siringo would use the cattle for cover and get closer on foot to the outlaws. If they could catch them by surprise, maybe they could take them with a minimum of risk, and blood. Horn would remain mounted and cover them from higher ground with his rifle.

  They tied their horses off and circled around the herd. They could still hear the men arguing . . .

  * * *

  “I don’t care what Sandusky said,” one of the men was shouting, “you ain’t no leader.”

  “Well, I am today, cabron,” Rosario said. “Now get on those horses and tend to the herd.”

  “We ain’t doin’ what you say,” another man said.

  Skeeter, who wondered why he or Nelson weren’t put in charge, said, “Now listen. Sandusky put Rosario in charge. We gotta—”

  “We ain’t gotta do nothin’,” another voice said. “If we follow Rosario, we’re all gonna end up dead.”

  “Or lost,” still another voice chimed in.

  Rosario put his hand on his gun, which caused the other men to do the same, and they were just seconds from shooting each other . . .

  * * *

  Clint wondered if they shouldn’t wait and see if the men would shoot one another, but he and Siringo had split up, and Charlie was already moving toward the group.

  He had to back the detective’s play.

  * * *

  Horn sat his horse and sighted down the barrel of his rifle at the group. They all seemed to be facing down one Mexican, who suddenly put his hand on his gun. Horn wondered if he fired now, would they all started firing at one another?

  * * *

  Siringo moved in closer, keeping close to the steers, gun in hand. He looked around for Clint, saw him not far away, also using the steers for cover.

  Now they were both close enough to hear clearly that the argument was over who was in charge. In was obvious that Sandusky was not among them.

  Siringo looked over at Clint, who waved that he was ready.

  “All right,” Siringo announced, stepping out from the cover of the steers, “nobody move.”

  All the outlaws turned to look at him, and then they all did just the opposite. They went for their guns.

  * * *

  Tom Horn sighted on the Mexican, figuring he was supposed to be the leader. But as the group went for their guns, he could plainly see which one of them was going to clear leather first. He fired, hitting the man in the left side of the neck and putting him down. He quickly levered another round and fired again, this time just into the whole group.

  * * *

  Siringo fired and ducked back behind the steers, but the animals were just seconds away from stampeding because of the shots.

  Clint fired twice, quickly dispatching two men from the action, then took cover himself.

  Both men fired into the group of outlaws, who were scattering, trying to make a smaller target of themselves. The steers started to run, but that was of no concern to Siringo and Clint as long as they weren’t trampled. They were not worried about keeping the herd together and getting it back to Lincoln County. And, in fact, the herd began to run toward the outlaws, who then really had to scramble to keep from being trampled beneath them.

  Clint and Siringo managed to avoid that fate themselves, but the stampeding herd kicked up a lot of dust, which impeded their view. They both hoped Horn had a clearer view from above . . .

  But he did not.

  The dust was obscuring all the figures below him. Horn continued to sight down the barrel of his rifle, though, waiting for a target to become clear. He just hoped Siringo and Clint weren’t getting their asses shot off inside the dust cloud.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The dust made Siringo’s and Clint’s eyes gritty, but they had to assume the same was true of the other men. They dodged steers and, finally, to totally avoid being trampled, had to scramble clear of the cover the steers had afforded them.

  * * *

  Several of the outlaws fell prey to the flashing hooves of the stampeding steers. Others scampered out of the way, still trying to see through the clouds of dust to fire at what they assumed were members of a posse. And with no leader to guide them, they simply reacted in an every-man-for-himself manner.

  * * *

  Siringo and Clint worked their way onto the fringes of the dust cloud, were suddenly able to see several outlaws, who were fanning the air in front of them, trying to get a clear view. A shot from Horn’s rifle took one down. Clint was hoping they’d capture at least one of them alive.

  Eventually, the steers were all gone and the dust began to settle. As the view cleared, the ground was littered with bodies, and there were only a few men standing—Clint, Siringo, and three of the outlaws.

  The five men stared at one another, all looking rather shocked by the events of the past few minutes.

  “Drop the guns!” Siringo shouted. “It’s all over.”

  The three remaining outlaws had their guns in their hands, pointing down, their faces—like those of Siringo and Clint—covered with dust.

  “Don’t try anything,” Clint said. “You’re covered from above.”

  The three men’s eyes flicked about, as if looking for someone to tell them what to do. Finally, one of them began to lift his gun to point it at Clint and Siringo. Horn’s rifle barked once and the man fell, startling the other two.

  “I told you,” Siringo said. “You’re covered. Drop your guns.”

  The two outlaws did not waste any time. They dropped their pistols to the ground.

  Siringo looked up at Horn and waved for him to come down.

  Clint approached the two men and kicked their guns away, then started checking the fallen.

  “All dead,” he announced.

  The remaining two still seemed shocked.

  “Any more?” Siringo asked.

  They didn’t answer.

  “Are there any more of you?” Siringo shouted.

  “No, no,” one of them said. “Nobody.”

  “What about Sandusky?” Clint asked.

  “Him and Anderson went on ahead,” the other said.

  “And you fellas agreed to stay behind?” Horn asked. “How stupid can you get?” Horn sat his horse, the stock of his rifle resting on his good thigh so that the barrel was pointed up.

  “You fellas were supposed to meet Sandusky somewhere with these cows. You’re gonna tell us where that is.”

  �
�We can’t—”

  “Or I’m gonna kill you,” Horn added.

  The two men looked at Horn’s face, realized he was telling the truth, then looked at Siringo.

  “It’s me or him,” Siringo said.

  The two men exchanged a glance, then one of them said, “We’ll talk.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Mexico,” one of them said.

  “Mexico?” Siringo said. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all we know.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “how were you supposed to find Sandusky?”

  “Rosario was supposed to take us there,” the second man said. “He knows—knew—his way around Mexico.”

  “And where’s Rosario?” Clint asked.

  The man pointed to one of the bodies.

  “That’s him.”

  Clint walked over, determined that the man was dead, then went through his pockets.

  “He’s got nothing,” Clint said. “If he knew where to meet Sandusky, he didn’t write it down.”

  “He wouldn’t,” the first man said.

  “Why not?” Siringo asked.

  “The Mex didn’t know how to read and write.”

  “You guys are dumber than I thought,” Tom Horn said. “I might as well kill you now.”

  He pointed his rifle at them and they flinched.

  “Tom!” Siringo said.

  Horn looked at Siringo, then lowered his rifle.

  “You’re too soft, Charlie,” Tom said.

  “Maybe they can think of somethin’ that will help us,” Siringo said.

  “Oh yeah? How they gonna do that?”

  “We’ll take them to the next town and turn them over to the law,” Siringo said. He turned to the two outlaws. “If you can come up with somethin’ that will help us find Sandusky, it’ll work in your favor when you get sentenced. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” one of them said, and then he nudged the other one.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  The outlaw’s horse had been driven off by the stampeding cattle. Siringo left Clint and Horn with the two men while he rode down their horses. He would have had Clint help, but he was afraid Horn might kill the two men.

  When he brought their horses back, he had the two men mount up, then tied their hands in front of them.

  “If you try to ride off,” he told them, “I’ll let Horn kill you. Understand?”

  They both nodded.

  “And give it a lot of thought,” Siringo said. “The rest of your life depends on it.”

  Clint had Siringo mounted up, pulled their horses up alongside Clint’s.

  “There’s one more thing,” Horn said.

  “What’s that?” Siringo asked.

  “I counted the dead men,” Horn said. “There’s seven of them.”

  “And these two makes nine,” Clint said. “Anybody else around here?”

  “No,” Horn said.

  “Then we’ll be lookin’ for three men when we get to Mexico,” Siringo said.

  “Let’s see,” Clint said. He rode up to the two prisoners. “Is that right? Are we looking for three more of you? Sandusky and two more men? Anderson?”

  The two men exchanged a glance, and then one of them said, “No.”

  “How many then?” Clint asked.

  “You’re lookin’ for Sandusky and Anderson,” the other one said, “and a woman.”

  “A woman?” Horn asked.

  “Delilah,” the first outlaw said. “Sandusky’s woman.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  They rode to the next town, Tularosa, which was only two hours away, so that was all the time the two outlaws had to think. When they got there, they immediately turned the men over to the local sheriff.

  Before they left, they visited the two men in their cell.

  “What have you got for me?” Siringo asked.

  The two men stared at him.

  “One of you must’ve heard somethin’,” Siringo said. “Come on!”

  “He talked about selling the cattle as soon as we got to Mexico,” one of them said.

  “So he never intended to drive the cattle deep into Mexico.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He looked at the other man.

  “I heard Anderson mention Socorro.”

  “There you go,” Siringo said, pointing to him, “that’s what I needed.”

  They left the jailhouse.

  * * *

  They stopped in a saloon for one beer, and to discuss their options.

  “So we goin’ to Socorro?” Horn asked.

  “El Paso first, I think,” Siringo said. “Nobody who rides near El Paso doesn’t go there. It’s an easy crossin’ into Mexico.”

  They both looked at Clint.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think Sandusky ever expected these men to get to Mexico with the cattle,” he said. “I think he left them to get caught or killed, and to give them time to get to Mexico, where they figure a posse can’t go.”

  “They’re right,” Siringo said. “A posse can’t go to Mexico. But we can.”

  “So he never wanted the cattle,” Horn said.

  “I think he figured if the men actually got the cattle to Mexico, then he’d sell them and that would be extra. But he wasn’t counting on it.”

  “So what do we think?” Siringo asked. “El Paso?”

  “El Paso,” Horn said.

  “El Paso,” Clint said.

  They headed for El Paso.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  El Paso, Texas, was where Texas, New Mexico, and Mexico came together. El Paso and Juarez, Mexico, were joined together by a bridge, and were pretty much considered to be one city.

  With the arrival of the railroads in 1881, the population boomed, but that included everyone from merchants and businessmen and priests, to gunfighters and prostitutes. El Paso became violent and wild, well known for its prostitution and gambling. No traveler in his right mind would bypass it. Siringo, Clint, and Horn were hopeful that Harlan Sandusky would not be able to resist it either.

  As they rode in, Horn said, “Jesus, I ain’t been here in a while. What a change.”

  “The railroad has brought everything in here,” Siringo said, “good and bad.”

  “We need to get a hotel,” Clint said. “We might as well get some rest while we’re here, and find out if Sandusky is either here, or just passed through.”

  “Agreed,” Siringo said.

  Horn didn’t say a word, but he had to be happy about having a chance to rest.

  They dropped Horn off in front of a hotel to have him get them three rooms, and then Clint and Siringo took the horses to the livery. When they returned to the hotel, they only had to collect their keys from the clerk.

  “Tom can use this time to rest,” Siringo said as they walked up the stairs.

  “It’ll do him some good,” Clint said. “Also a couple of good, hot meals while we’re here.”

  “When was the last time you were here?” Siringo asked.

  “Back when Dallas Stoudemire was the law,” Clint said. “He was killed soon after.”

  “That’s a while.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “it’s been built up.”

  “Why don’t we just drop our gear in our rooms and then go and talk to the local law?”

  “Sure,” Clint said. “Let’s stop in on Tom and tell him we’ll pick him up when it’s time to eat.”

  “Okay.”

  They went to their respective rooms, dropped off their rifles and saddlebags, then walked to Horn’s room, the number of which the clerk had given them.

  “Come on in!” Horn called when they knocked.

  As they entered, they saw him sitting up on the bed with
his gun next to him.

  “We’re gonna go talk to the sheriff,” Siringo said.

  “I’ll come along.” Horn started to get off the bed.

  “Why don’t you stay here and give that leg some rest?” Clint suggested. “We’ll come and get you when we’re ready to eat.”

  Horn sat back and said, “I could use a hot meal and a cold beer.”

  “We could all use that,” Siringo said. “We won’t be long.”

  “Watch your backs,” Horn said.

  “Right,” Siringo said, and they left.

  * * *

  The sheriff’s office was not where it had been when Clint was last in El Paso. A new one had been built a couple of blocks away. The wood used to build it still looked new, although the new wood smell had faded. The shingle outside had not faded, however. It said: SHERIFF EDWARD JENKINS.

  They knocked, and entered.

  The first thing Clint noticed was that the inside was clean. Not usually something you noticed about a sheriff’s office.

  There was a small desk set against a wall, so that the man seated at it was sitting sideways to the door. He turned his head to see who had entered, then turned his body so they could see the star on his chest.

  “Help you fellas?” he asked. He was in his late thirties, clean shaven and as neat as the office looked. There was even a shine on the badge.

  “Sheriff,” Siringo said, “my name is Charlie Siringo. I work for the Pinkerton Agency.”

  “Mr. Siringo,” the lawman said, standing up, “I assume you have bona fides?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Siringo produced his credentials, which the sheriff looked over very carefully.

  “And you, sir?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams.”

  “I assume you can prove that?”

  “Well, I’m not a Pinkerton, so I have no credentials,” Clint said. “I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  The sheriff didn’t act like he’d ever heard Clint’s name before. He simply turned his attention to Siringo.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re trackin’ a man named Harlan Sandusky,” Siringo said, “did some rustlin’ and killed some people in New Mexico.”