by Paul Colt
“Rustlers, boys! Get your asses out of bed and saddle up!” A muzzle flashed off to the southwest. The bullet bit the porch railing punctuated by the rifle report. Brewer dropped to a knee and squeezed off a round in the direction of the flash. Off to the left more shots flashed and popped, driving the herd northwest across the ranch yard. Dust billowed gray plumes in the moonlight, obscuring horses and riders.
One by one the men tumbled out the door, struggling with britches, boots and gun belts. Big Jim led the way down the porch followed by Waite. Somewhere beyond the dust cloud another shooter lit up the men running for the corral. They dove for cover, firing wildly in the general direction of the shooter.
Brewer fired at the phantom behind the muzzle flash. “Get back inside! We’re like ducks on a damn pond in this light.” The men scrambled back inside the ranch house. Big Jim and Waite each took a window. Brewer held the door. The shooting fell silent. The only sounds that remained were the herd galloping away to the hoots of the rustlers driving them.
“Henry,” Brewer hissed. “You and John, see if you can slip out the back. Saddle a couple of horses and at least trail the sons a bitches until we can figure a way out of here.” Brown and Middleton scrambled through the darkness to the back door. Brown cracked it open. Two quick shots greeted him for his trouble. “Looks like they got us covered back here too.”
“How the hell many of ’em is there?”
Crystobal laughed as he circled his horse back to the east. He had a good look at the back corral where the men’s mounts were stabled. As luck would have it, whoever built the place hadn’t bothered with windows on the north side. He could sit off at a distance with his rifle and keep them away from their horses, covering both the front and back doors by riding a narrow circuit. To the men trapped inside he might be many men. A shadow moved in the front doorway. He squeezed off a shot and nudged his horse west away from the futile return fire.
An hour passed, then two. The moon waned in the west draping the front of the house in shadow. That tilted advantage, though slight, to Brewer and his men. Crystobal judged Evans and the boys’ getaway safe enough. He eased his mount off to the northeast, reckoning Brewer and his men would go after the horses once they discovered they were no longer pinned down.
Lincoln
Brewer galloped up the town’s only street, coat flapping in the wind, his horse throwing clods of mud amid a swirl of wet snow. His gray mount blew clouds of steam little distinguished from the dim cloud-filtered light. It gave horse and rider the spectral appearance of some ghostly mythical manbeast. He slid the gray to a rutted stop in front of the Tunstall store and leaped down.
He stamped up the boardwalk and burst through the door, sounding an alarm announced by the newly installed visitor bell. The entrance startled Lucy and Susan McSween. Tunstall ducked out from the back storeroom, sensing something amiss. Marshal Widenmann followed behind.
“What is it, Dick?”
“Rustlers hit us night before last. Ran off the herd we had rounded up for Fort Stanton.”
Tunstall exchanged glances with Widenmann. “Rustlers, do you know who is responsible?”
“It was dark. They were too far away to make out who they were. I got my suspicions, but I can’t prove nothin’.”
“Well, horse theft is unacceptable. What do you suggest we do, Marshal?”
“Horse theft is Sheriff Brady’s jurisdiction.”
“We shall report this to the sheriff straight away then.” Tunstall pulled off his apron and threw on his frock coat.
Brewer looked at his boss in disbelief. Sometimes, he just didn’t understand the man. “You’re goin’ to report this to Sheriff Brady?”
“Of course, he has the responsible jurisdiction, does he not?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“But nothing. He is responsible to bring these miscreants to justice. It’s the law. Civil society demands nothing less. Come along, Dick.” He stomped out the door and down the street to the sheriff’s office, trailing steam like a runaway train.
Brewer gaped after him. He glanced from Widenmann to Lucy to Susan, shrugged his shoulders and set off after the boss. He hurried to catch up.
“You know Brady’s not likely to do anything about this.” Tunstall scowled. “Why ever not? It’s his duty.”
“Likely as not this is some of Jesse Evans’ work. The Seven Rivers boys usually deal in cattle, but whatever they do, Dolan protects them.”
“If they’ve broken the law, they should be brought to justice. What can that possibly have to do with James Dolan?”
“Dolan owns Brady.”
“Dolan can’t own the law.”
“I didn’t say he owned the law. I said he owns Brady. It amounts to the same thing.”
“You are talking in riddles, Dick. I shall simply demand that Sheriff Brady do his duty.”
“Suit yourself.”
They swung into the sheriff’s office. Brady looked up in surprise.
“Mr. Tunstall, Brewer, good afternoon. What can I do for you?”
“We should like to report a rustling, Sheriff.”
“A rustling.” Brady lifted his eyebrows to Brewer.
“Hit us night before last. Got away with fifty head of horses.”
“I see. Any idea who it might have been?”
“Nothing I can prove. We got a trail. My men are following it. Looked like they were headed toward the Rio Hondo, I’m guessing that’s where they’ll lose it.”
“Hmm. Not much to go on, is it?”
Tunstall drew himself up to a righteous stature. “So, Sheriff, what is to be done about this outrage?”
Brady could scarcely conceal his amusement.
“How soon can you organize, I believe you refer to it as a posse, to recover my property?”
“I’m busy with other things at the moment, Mr. Tunstall. Let’s see what your men come up with. If they find a solid lead, I’ll get right on it.”
“So, for the moment you propose to do nothing.”
“I said let’s see what your men can find.”
“Sheriff, I’ve been robbed. Is this how you protect the citizens of this community?”
“Mr. Tunstall, I’m the sheriff in Lincoln County. I’m elected to protect the county. That doesn’t mean dropping everything I’m doing every time a new complaint arrives.”
Tunstall leaned across the desk. “Sheriff, I’m afraid I must insist. That trail is getting cold as we speak here. It is your duty to recover my property. Unless I get your cooperation I shall be forced to write a most strongly worded letter of complaint to the editors of every newspaper in the territory. The electorate has every right to know precisely the sort of lackadaisical law enforcement on which the safety and security of their lives and property depend.”
Brady sat back. “Lacka-what?”
“Lackadaisical, my good man and if you don’t like the fit of that term, you’ve only to force me to write the rest of that letter.”
He threw up his hands. “All right, all right. I’ll get up some men and have a look in the morning.”
“Very well then, I shall expect the recovery of my property forthwith.”
CHAPTER NINE
Fort Stanton
It started with a bottle of good whiskey. Well actually there was more to it than that. The whiskey was a thank-you. The friendship came with it. The thank-you involved a tight spot Ty and Roth got into trying to bring the killer Patch to justice. It seems quite a few people wanted a piece of that hombre, including a renegade Comanche by the name of Chero and about twenty of his warriors. Ty and Roth sort of snatched the killer out from under Chero’s nose. The renegade didn’t appreciate it. The Comanche came after them hard. They ran Ty and Roth to ground with their prisoner. They got pinned down bad enough for a man to think about saving that last bullet for himself. The things Comanche did with a skinning knife made the bullet a preferable choice. Right about then, along come Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Augustus Monr
oe Dudley with a cavalry troop out of Fort Stanton. Nate, as Ty had come to call him, and his men turned up just in time to run off the renegades before the boys started dealing in last bullets. First chance he got, Ty bought that bottle of whiskey and rode out to the fort. By the time he and Nate found the bottom of the bottle, they’d struck up a friendship. After that, every couple of weeks, Ty would ride out to the fort or Nate would come into town. They’d have a good meal and a couple of drinks, usually not the whole bottle, and enjoy one another’s company.
Fort Stanton sat in a shallow valley in the foothills of the White Mountains west of Lincoln. Ty rode out of the hills and jogged west toward the fort with its central quadrangle laid out in neat military precision. Off to the south he noticed a dust cloud. He hoped it didn’t spell trouble. It’d be a shame to have a sociable evening interrupted by some business Nate might have to attend to. As he approached the perimeter sentry station, he made out a herd of horses being driven to the fort. It looked like a delivery of remounts and nothing more exciting than that. Good.
The sentry stepped out from behind his guard post. “Halt. State your business.”
“Deputy Marshal Ledger to see Colonel Dudley.” It might not be official business, but the badge made things easier when dealin’ with folks like sentries. The trooper waved him in without a second thought. He jogged across the parade ground to the post commander’s office, drew rein and stepped down. He looped a rein over the hitch rack and climbed the step to the office door. Inside a crusty sergeant major sat at a cluttered desk in the cramped outer office. “Sir?”
“Marshal Ledger. Colonel Dudley is expecting me.”
“Ty.” Dudley filled his office door with a broad smile. Tall and a touch on the portly side, Dudley still managed a soldierly presence. He wore his wavy brown hair neatly trimmed, though a slightly receding hairline gave him the appearance of a long face with a prominent nose and bushy mustache. A strict disciplinarian, he could be pompous at times. His men thought his temper stormy, but none questioned his competence in the field. He put all of that aside for his visits with the unlikely Texan.
“Nate, good to see you.”
“Come in, come in.”
He crossed the office and shook Dudley’s hand.
“Sergeant Caleb, notify the mess. We’ll need steaks for supper.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that the office door swung open. A corporal came to attention and threw up a salute. “Sir, Captain Purington sends his compliments. A prospective remount herd has arrived on post. Do you wish to inspect them?”
Dudley scowled. “Sorry for the interruption, Ty, but I really should take a look before we spend this kind of money.”
“Do whatever you need to, Nate. Mind if I tag along?”
“Feel free. Your opinion on horseflesh is probably every bit as good as mine.”
He followed Dudley out of the office and across the quadrangle to a corral steaming a thin veil of dust raised by fifty head of horses circling, prancing and snorting at their new confinement. Dudley made a slow circuit around the corral, inspecting the herd. Ty followed along absorbed in the herd. A ramrod-straight officer wearing captain’s bars met them at the gate with a salute. A familiar figure stood beside him.
“Sir, may I present Jesse Evans. Mr. Evans is offering this herd against our current requisition.”
Ty waited for Evans to notice him. Dudley extended his hand. Evans shook Dudley’s hand.
“Mr. Evans. May I present my friend, Ty Ledger.”
Evans looked past the colonel with a scowl. “Ledger.”
“Jesse.”
“Then you two know one another?”
Ty nodded. “We’ve met. I didn’t know you were in the horse business, Jesse.”
“Had to find some way to pay the cost of feed this winter.”
“You got a bill of sale for them horses?”
“Range stock? Hell, no.”
“Whose range they come off?”
Evans’ anger flared. “Ain’t none of ’em wearin’ a brand.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Evans dropped his hand to his hip. “You got somethin’ to say, Ledger, spit it out.”
“Kind of testy over a couple of simple questions, aren’t you, Jesse?”
Evans turned to Dudley. “You lookin’ for horses, Colonel, or not?”
Dudley glanced at Ty. He had nothing more to say. “Carry on, Captain.” He started back across the quad. Ty swung in beside him. “You think the horses are stolen?”
Ty shrugged. “Nothin’ I could prove. When it comes to rustlin,’ Evans has a knack for showin’ up nearby.”
Rio Hondo
Brady had little appetite for getting off his ass to go chasing around the Pecos valley looking for Tunstall’s rustlers. He counted on Dolan’s patronage and the usual privilege of tax collection to pad his income, but at the end of his term he still had to face the voters. The Democrats never mounted much of a challenge, but give them the kind of bad publicity Tunstall threatened and even that bunch of buffoons might come up with a candidate. He appreciated Dolan’s support, but the man didn’t have many friends in Lincoln County. Given the chance, he had no doubt the voters would be pleased to throw him out of office. He had to at least give Tunstall a show. So, on a cold winter morning covered in fresh snow, he rode south out of town with deputies George Hindman and Billy Mathews.
Hindman was like an old habit. His best qualification for keeping his job was fawning over Brady while doing his bidding. He clung to the ragged end of his middle years with a bushy mop of hair shot through with gray. He wore a baggy canvas vest long past the time when it buttoned over his paunch. These days it provided a place to pin his badge and a pocket for his makin’s. The battered .44 riding butt forward on his hip posed little threat he might actually use it.
Mathews was another story. He had a foul temper and a hair trigger you couldn’t hide behind a badge. He had vacant eyes, a bunched brow and a twisted scowl that gave the unsuspecting as much warning as a snake’s rattle. He wore a plain spun gray shirt, wool pants and a gray hat with silver conchos in the band. Double-rigged Colts slung on his hips. Mathews gave Brady a ready answer when the situation called for a violent conclusion.
The morning wore into midday when Brady drew a halt. He eased down from the saddle, ground tied his horse and stretched out the aches in his frame. “George, fix us a fire and put on some coffee. I got a hankerin’ for something warm to wash down a little hardtack.” Hindman ambled off to gather firewood.
Mathews brushed the snow off a flat rock and sat down. “How long you figure to stay out here on this wild-goose chase?”
Brady smoothed the corners of his mustache, chewing over the question. Billy had a point.
“You know we ain’t gonna find any rustlers lessen we go on down to Seven Rivers.”
“Now, Billy, you mind yourself. You’re a peace officer. You can’t just go off and make wild accusations you can’t prove.”
“Wild accusations, yeah right. So how long do you figure to keep this up?”
“Long enough to make that fool Englishman believe we tried.”
“Long enough to freeze our sore asses you mean. Look up yonder.” He tossed his head to the north. “Them look like snow clouds buildin’ in again.”
“Quit bitchin’. It ain’t no help.”
Hindman struck a match to a clump of dry tinder and blew a small campfire to light. He scooped coffee into a pot and added water from his canteen. He set the pot beside the fire to heat. Smoke sign promised warmth against a threatening cold sky.
As Hindman filled their cups, a lone rider appeared in the distance. “Looks like we might have company.” He pointed with his chin. Brady and Mathews followed his line of sight to the approaching rider. He wore a battered sombrero and sat a sturdy roan. He drew rein and favored them with a gap-toothed grin.
“Thought I smelled coffee.”
“Step on down,” Brady offered. “I expe
ct we got a cup left.”
“Much obliged.” He glanced at Brady. “Sheriff.”
Brady rose. “William Brady, out of Lincoln.” He extended his hand.
“I reckon I can remember that, William Bonney’s the name.” He took the sheriff’s hand.
“These are my deputies, George Hindman and Billy Mathews.”
Bonney nodded at the two men and accepted a cup from Hindman.
Mathews eased himself up. “Bonney, Bonney, somehow you look kind of familiar.”
“Can’t say you do. Must be I got a common face.”
“Nope, not that common.”
By the time Bonney realized what was happening, Mathews had both guns cocked and leveled at his gut.
“Get his gun, Sheriff.” Brady lifted the Colt from Bonney’s holster. “The last time I saw you was Silver City three years ago. The name was Henry Antrim then. I helped Sheriff Whitehall bring you in for horse stealin’. Looks like we got us our rustler, Sheriff. No need gettin’ our asses froze off any worse than they already is.”
CHAPTER TEN
Lincoln
Snow billowed out of a rumpled gray sky, swirling in sheets on a howling wind. The door clanged open to the visitor bell. A chill blast followed Jesse Evans’ bundled figure.
“Where’s Tunstall?”
Lucy blinked. “In the back, I’ll get him.”
“No need of that, my dear.” He stepped out of the back room into the store. “Mr. Evans, isn’t it, I believe. How may I be of service?”
“I need twenty hundred-weight bales of winter feed.”
“Splendid! I shall be pleased to take care of that for you straight away.” He stepped around behind the counter and scratched out his ciphers. “That comes to one hundred dollars.” Evans tossed five twenty-dollar gold pieces on the counter. Tun-stall scooped up the coins and slid a receipt across the counter. “Simply show this receipt to George Peppin and he’ll be pleased to show you where you can load your feed.”
