Bounty of Greed

by Paul Colt

  “You’re hired, boys.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lincoln

  Cold light spilled through the dusty window. Lucy swept a pile of sawdust between the finished shelves. The first of three freight wagons worth of inventory were parked out back, waiting to unload. Tunstall bustled about tallying the shipment against the bill of lading. The store was days away from opening and they had a thousand things left to do. The door opened. Still no bell, she added to her mental list.

  “Good morning, Lucy.”

  “Marshal Widenmann.”

  “Please, call me Rob. Everyone else here does. The place is really shaping up.”

  She paused, broom in hand and sighed. “I suppose it is.” She glanced around at the neat rows of freshly stained shelves ready to receive merchandise, the completed counter and the paint pots ready to create a window sign. “It’s just that we have so much left to do before we open. I’m afraid all I see is what is left to be done.”

  Tunstall came in through the back door, checking off the last items on the bill. “I sent the driver off to have his lunch. We shall unload the wagon this afternoon. Oh, Rob, I didn’t see you there. Good morning.”

  “Good Morning, John. I was just telling Lucy how nice the place looks.”

  Tunstall set his papers on the counter and looked around. “It is beginning to look like a proper store, isn’t it? I expect we shall be ready for business by the first of next week.”

  “There’s already a little buzz around town. People are anxious to see how your prices compare with Dolan’s. How’s business been on the bank side of things?”

  “Quite steady, actually. Word is spreading. John Chisum opening an account produced just the vote of confidence I anticipated.”

  Boots clumped the boardwalk. The door swung open. Jesse Evans filled the door frame followed by Buckshot Roberts. “Which one of you is Tunstall?”

  “I’m John Tunstall. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Jesse Evans. We’ll see if it’s a pleasure. George Peppin tells me you bought up his winter hay.”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact I did.”

  “I buy my winter feed from George. He said I’d have to come and see you.”

  “Quite so, well I shall be pleased to sell you all the winter feed you might need.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten cents the bale.”

  “Ten! George charged five.”

  Tunstall shrugged.

  “Hell, I’d sooner buy from Oscar Tanner and haul it halfway across the county than pay you ten cents. It’s damn near robbery.”

  “Yes, Mr. Evans, I’m told you may know something about that. But let me save you the journey. Mr. Tanner’s hay costs ten cents this year too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I purchased Mr. Tanner’s crop also.”

  Evans did a slow burn. “We’ll see, Tunstall. We’ll just see.”

  “It seems there is quite a lot of that going around these days. Do come back when you change your mind then, Mr. Evans. Good day.”

  Evans slammed the door and stomped down the street toward Dolan’s store.

  Lucy pulled a worried face. “Perhaps you’ve set the price too high, John. What good does it do if people won’t pay it?”

  “Oh, they’ll pay it, my dear. Either that, or their cattle will starve this winter.”

  “Some of the small ranchers may be forced to sell out.”

  “So they may.”

  Widenmann furrowed his brow. “Lucy has a point, John. You may not want to make an enemy of Evans. You’ve already stirred up Dolan and you haven’t even got the store open yet.”

  “Oh, please, I don’t understand all the nattering. It’s only business.”

  Ty stepped out of the Wortley. It was one of those winter days when the chill in the air softened to the touch of bright sunshine. You couldn’t call it warm, but somehow it felt good to be outside. He took a seat on the hotel porch bench, stretched his legs and crossed his boots at the ankle.

  He’d decided to have lunch rather than go down to Tunstall’s store with Widenmann. Lucy’d be there and the less he saw of her with the Englishman, the better. Funny he felt that way. He had no claim on her. He guessed he could have if he’d tried. Part of him wanted to, but that part couldn’t get past the part that still mourned Victoria. He had an empty place inside scarred by the bloody corpse, fresh graves and burned-out home he’d left behind. He’d resigned himself to the fact that Victoria’s memory would always be part of him. He was also slowly coming to understand that life held more than memories. Maybe that’s what Lucy meant when she said not to let too much of it slip away with his grieving. It was probably good, well-meant advice. But that was before John Tunstall came along.

  He couldn’t blame her for takin’ up with the newcomer. Lord knows he’d been no prospect in his condition. Tunstall had prospects, ambition and money. He had a ranch, a bank, and now a store. Ty had none of it. Then again, he hadn’t made any enemies yet, either. Tunstall sure as hell had him there. The way he did business, folks was linin’ up fast in the enemies department. You was either for him or agin’ him. Most folks had no use for Jimmy Dolan. Tunstall knew how to take advantage of that. Dolan knew how to play rough. He doubted Tunstall knew how to deal with that. That’s the part that made him fearful for Lucy. Maybe it wasn’t so bad Widenmann befriended the Englishman. Somebody needed to look after the fool greenhorn.

  He shook himself out of his reverie. All such hard thinkin’ did nothing for his digestion. He glanced down the street to see a lone rider on a good-looking roan high stepping his way. Goodlookin’ horse and a bad-lookin’ rider.The shabbily dressed hombre in a battered sombrero eased the roan over to the Wortley hitch rack as if he’d overheard Ty’s unspoken opinion.

  He stepped down and threw a rein over the rail. The rest of his rig didn’t look any better than the hat. He wore a plain spun shirt, stained canvas vest and wool britches that hung baggy on his slight frame. Underneath the hat a rather pleasant, boyish young man women might fancy to mother looked him over. He had sandy brown hair, a gap tooth buck grin, cherub cheeks and a glint in his eye somewhere between good-natured mischief and murder. He sported an attempt at a mustache and beard. Together they amounted to patches of fuzz on his lip and chin.

  “Howdy.” He smiled.

  “Afternoon. New in town?” He had to be. Ty had never seen him before.

  The kid nodded. “Sure am. William Bonney’s the name.”

  “Ty Ledger.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Say that looks like Marshal Ledger, don’t it?”

  Ty nodded. “What brings you to Lincoln, William?”

  “That an official question, or just passin’ the time of day?”

  “Just passin’.”

  “Then call me Billy. All my friends do.”

  “Fair enough, Billy. My friends call me Ty.”

  He smiled again. “I hear folks is hirin’ around here. I come to see about a job.”

  “What kind of work you favor?”

  A vacant chill crossed his eyes like a curtain. He drew his vest back over the butt of a .41 Colt Thunderer holstered on his right hip with a half smile.

  “I see. Well I hear John Chisum’s hirin’ down at South Spring on the Pecos. Dick Brewer’s hirin’ for Tunstall at the Flyin’ H. Jesse Evans has some boys work for Dolan from time to time. I suppose you could take your pick.”

  “Hell that sounds like a war.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Which side you figure to win?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Hmm, maybe I’ll just hang around a spell. See which way the wind blows before I sign on.”

  “Might be smart that way.”

  “Much obliged, Ty.”

  “Good luck, Billy.”

  “The son of a bitch bought up every last speck of winter feed in the county.”

  Dolan listened to Evans fume, amused. “What do
you want me to do about it?”

  “Well I figure you might do somethin’. He’s robbin’ us blind for winter feed; and he’s about to put a hole in your store. That damn Englishman ain’t good for nobody’s business but his.”

  Dolan stroked his chin between thumb and forefinger. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”

  “Without winter feed, my cattle have a way of starvin’.”

  “So buy the damn feed.”

  “I ain’t payin’ that bastard his price.”

  “Why not?”

  “The hell, Dolan, you gone soft in the head? I don’t make enough money as it is without payin’ twice the price for feed.”

  Dolan shook his head. “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse, you’re not listening. I’m sayin’ buy the feed with Tunstall’s money.”

  Evans wrinkled his brow. “You’re talkin’ in riddles.”

  “Fort Stanton’s got a requisition out for fifty head of remounts. Tunstall’s boys just rounded up a herd at the Flying H. So run off a few, fill the army requisition and pay Tunstall for his feed with his own money.”

  A slow smile played at the corners of Evans’ mouth. “Now you’re talkin’ sense.”

  “Of course I am. Tunstall will get his. I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

  Evans took his leave. Dolan rubbed his chin in thought. Tun-stall bought the Flying H from that estate that owed him money. McSween must have sold it to him. First, the insurance settlement, now this. McSween is near as much trouble as the Englishman. Something has to be done about both of them.

  Lucy pulled her shawl around her shoulders, preparing to leave the store at the end of the day. The encounter with Evans still bothered her. The man had a reputation. He could be dangerous. John didn’t understand that. He assumed civility. He respected the rule of law and expected others would abide by it too. A blind spot like that could prove dangerous.

  “John, maybe you should pay more attention to Marshal Widenmann’s advice. He knows what men like Evans are capable of.”

  Tunstall straightened up from the bank’s daily ledger. He came around from behind the counter and went to her side. “Now, now, my dear, there’s no need to worry. It is only business after all. I assure you it is all quite legal and proper. You are far too pretty to bother yourself over such ominous thinking.” He lifted her chin and kissed her tenderly. “I should much prefer to have you join me for dinner at the Wortley this evening.”

  Tepid and safe,she sighed. “That would be lovely, John.” Candlelight flickered over the journal vellum.

  Jesse Evans came to the store today. He tried to buy winter feed from John. He left hopping mad when he found John’s price and the fact that he bought up all the feed in the county. John doesn’t understand men like Jesse Evans and James Dolan. He thinks “it’s just business.” He thinks that as long as his business dealings are legal, he has nothing to fear. I’ve tried to warn him. So has MarshalWidenmann. He doesn’t listen. Not really. Dick Brewer convinced him to hire some gunmen, but that only means gunplay will end in more gunplay. He’s a sweet man really, very smart, brilliant in some ways. How is it that someone so smart has no common sense?

  Wind howled out of the northwest, whining through the store rafters and rattling the office window. Gusts lashed sheets of dust and sand into a dun fog. Dolan seemed not to notice. The ranch suited his purpose. He had his claim on the Fritz estate. Tunstall now owned a ranch that made up a substantial portion of that estate. He could assert his claim with a lien easily enough given a little help from his friends at court in Santa Fe. Yes, a simple lien on the stock should do it. Who would object? Tun-stall was a long way from Santa Fe. He had no standing there even if he did object. No, this was Jimmy Dolan’s word and no one in authority in Santa Fe would question it. A lien didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. It was more about serving it. The action was sure to irritateTunstall, maybe enough for him to do something stupid. All Sheriff Brady needed was an excuse. Hmm, no, not Brady, he’d have to give that some thought. None of that would matter to Santa Fe, of course. He put pen to paper.

  Hon.T. B. Catron

  US Attorney, New Mexico Territory

  Tunstall stepped off the boardwalk a few paces into the street clotted in stiff ruts and patches of brown slushy snow. He admired the storefront. The new finely lettered sign in the window proclaimed J. H. Tunstall & Co. Mercantile. He nodded approval. The shelves were stocked, the prices fair enough to undercut Dolan. The bank attracted new accounts at a steady rate. Customers who came into the store would soon add to the bank numbers. He rested his hands on his hips and smiled to himself. It was only a matter of time until Dolan felt the squeeze like the ranchers who paid him for feed. His eyes swept the street up one side and down the other. He didn’t own Lincoln County yet, but the commercial tentacles of that ownership stretched out all around him.

  He strolled back to the boardwalk and scraped the mud and snow from his boots before turning to the store entrance. He smiled greetings to passersby and welcome to those who stepped inside to shop or browse. Lucy stood at the counter assisting customers. She made a nice improvement over that old fossil, Jasper, Dolan had collecting his outrageous prices. Susan Mc-Sween sat behind the teller cage, serving the needs of his banking customers. It truly was a powerful combination of services he’d hit upon. Dolan had made so many enemies along the way, he’d opened the door to his own destruction. The only thing missing was a competitor with the vision to seize the opportunity. Tunstall had that vision and more. His ranching foray in feed would yield a land empire beyond Dolan’s imagining. One day he might even lease grazing rights to the likes of John Chisum. By then, he expected to be the richest man in the territory, soon to be one of the richest men in America when statehood inevitably came to New Mexico.

  Tunstall half smiled, congratulating himself as a gap-toothed young man in a battered sombrero and baggy clothes ambled down the boardwalk trailed by a roan horse. The horse followed along in the street, trailing his master like a dog. The picture amused him. The kid smiled a crooked greeting.

  “Afternoon. You the storekeeper?”

  “I am the owner. John Tunstall at your service, young man.”

  “William Bonney.”

  “How may we be of service, Mr. Bonney?”

  “I’m needful of some supplies and hopeful your prices is better than that bandit down the street.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Dolan’s store.

  “I am quite sure we can accommodate you, Mr. Bonney. I think you’ll find the prices at J. H. Tunstall and Company Mercantile far more palatable than those of our worthy competitor.”

  The kid’s eyes drew blank. “Worthy comp . . . Say, you ain’t from around these parts, are you?”

  Tunstall chuckled. “No, I’m afraid you’ve found me out. I’m from England, actually.”

  “Never been there. I ain’t from around here, either.”

  “Then it seems we have something in common.” Tunstall beamed. “Come in and let’s see about those supply needs of yours.” He stepped back with a half bow and followed the kid into the store.

  Dolan stood in the shade of his storefront down the street. He drew a cheroot from his coat pocket, bit the tip and spat it into the street. He fished in his vest pocket for a lucifer and scratched it to light on the door frame. He puffed a cloud of blue smoke and steam into the chill air, watching the Englishman inspect his store and greet his customers. Son of a bitch, I ought’a burn the damn place down.Frustration did no good. Time would take care of things. The bastard would play himself out. He needed patience. Let the law do it, or at least some convenient version of the law. He’d get the lien from Catron. He’d get Brady to deputize some of Evans’ boys to serve it all legal like. Evans was already pissed at Tunstall over his winter feed. It wouldn’t take much irritation from the persnickety Englishman to light Jesse’s fuse, not much at all. He pitched his cheroot into a muddy rut and retreated to the warmth of his office.
>
  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Flying H

  Evans rode into lengthening purple shadows in an arroyo southwest of the Flying H. A brilliant ball of winter sun painted the mountaintops crimson in the west throwing a pink blush on the cobalt-blue sky above. Morton, Baker, Roberts and Crystobal waited with their horses. Evans stepped down.

  “They couldn’t set it up for us no better if we’d asked ’em.” The boys gathered round. “The stallion’s penned up. They got a herd of fifty head or so pastured below the ranch house. Real neighborly of ’em to do most of the hard work for us. They must be fixin’ to run ’em up to Fort Stanton for a quick sale. I guess we’ll just have to save ’em the trouble.” The boys laughed. “We’ll hit ’em when things is all settled down for the night. Crystobal, you can have a little target practice, keepin’ Brewer and his men pinned down in the house while me and the boys run off the herd. You can slip away once we got ’em good and gone.”

  Crystobal nodded with a glint in his eye.

  Give the man a target and he knew what to do with it. “Might as well try to get some rest now, boys. We got a full night’s work ahead of us.”

  “What about a fire?” Morton was always one to worry after his comforts.

  “No fire. We ain’t givin’ them boys no smoke sign we’re here.”

  “It’s gonna get damn cold, Jesse.”

  “You got a blanket. Use it.”

  Brewer woke to the stallion’s whicker. What’s got him riled up? He put it down to a varmint and tugged the blanket a little tighter. Hopefully the soft snores and heavy breathing of the men would put him back to sleep. The stallion trumpeted again, more loudly this time. Hooves prancing nervously in the corral accompanied the sound. He threw back his blanket. Son of a bitch,whatever it is, best not ignore it. He heard horses moving. Not just the stallion, likely the herd down in the pasture. He grabbed the Winchester beside his bunk.

  “Boys, we got trouble.” He crossed to the door followed by grunts and mumbled curses. He opened the door and stepped onto the porch. Bright moonlight flooded the corral and meadow beyond. The stallion had his ears pinned back and his nostrils flared to the night breeze as he danced back and forth across the corral, momentarily distracting Brewer. Dark shadowed riders moved among the herd in the pasture below. He levered a round into the Winchester.