Bounty of Greed

by Paul Colt

  “You’ve been talkin’ to Ledger and Widenmann.”

  “So have you. Still you’ve made no effort to investigate an event too curious to credit to coincidence.”

  “Ledger can’t prove a thing.”

  “And neither can you with respect to Mr. Bonney. His arrest is little more than a ruse to cover the likelihood of Jesse Evans’ guilt.”

  “Little more than a what?”

  “I insist you release Mr. Bonney at once.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “The plaintiff. And since it is clear you have no intention of pursuing the matter, I’m dropping the charges.”

  “You’re what?”

  “You heard me. I thought the statement quite clear. I’m drop ping the charges. Now release the young man at once.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Tunstall rested his hands on the sheriff’s desk and leaned across to the bridge of his nose. “We’ll see who is deranged, Sheriff. The citizens of this county deserve law and order and that means vigorous law enforcement. I intend to do somewhat more than write that letter to all the newspapers in the territory. I believe there is feeble Democrat opposition to you and your fellow Republicans. The citizens of this county are clearly benefiting from a little competition directed at your Mr. Dolan. Well it’s high time law enforcement around here benefited from a little competition. I intend to make it my business, not only to expose you, but to find a suitable candidate for the Democrats to run against you. I intend to see to it that you are run out of office. Your Mr. Dolan’s days of running this county like his own private fiefdom are over. Now release Mr. Bonney this instant.”

  Brady rocked back in his chair. He leveled a venomous glare at the Englishman over the rim of his glasses. “You have no idea what you’re gettin’ yourself into, Tunstall. No idea.”

  “Is that a threat, Sheriff?”

  “Take it any way you like. I’d call it good advice.”

  Brady clumped back to the jail. Moments later he returned with a grinning William Bonney. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and handed the kid his gun belt. The kid strapped it on and checked the loads.

  “Come along, William. It’s a bit stuffy in here.”

  The kid tapped the brim of his hat to Brady and sauntered out the door behind Tunstall. Outside he took a deep breath of free air. “Thanks, Mr. Tunstall. I appreciate you stickin’ up for me like that.”

  “The least I could do, William. What will you do now?”

  He scratched the stubble on his chin. “I was on my way down to South Spring to see if Chisum was still hirin’ men when the sheriff arrested me. S’pose I’ll head that way again.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Come along to the store with me. I’ll write a recommendation to Dick Brewer, my foreman on the Flying H with instructions to hire you on as one of our men.”

  “Why that’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me.”

  Tunstall studied him for a moment. “You mean that don’t you, William.”

  The kid nodded.

  “Very well then, you can save me a trip in the bargain. I want Dick to look into the matter of those stolen horses. I have reason to believe Jesse Evans and his Seven Rivers boys may have had a hand in it.”

  “Glad to do it, Mr. Tunstall.”

  “Splendid. Then come along, William. We shall get you started in our employ straight away.”

  “Much obliged, Mr. Tunstall. And please, call me Billy.”

  December 1877

  Dolan spilled the contents of the canvas bag on his desk. Dull gray light seeped through the window seeming to shrink the small pile of currency and coin. He scowled and counted. He went to the office door.

  “Jasper, where the hell did today’s receipts go?”

  “Those are today’s receipts.”

  Dolan returned to his desk. He counted the cash, opened a ledger and entered the figures. He scanned the column. The son of a bitch is killing me.He stood and paced to the window. Light snow swirled in the gathering gloom. He clasped his hands behind his back. He needed cash to keep the store stocked. Cash had gone short since Tunstall opened his store. On paper, he held substantial assets in the form of the credit balances owed by his customers. That was on paper. The immediate problem was the cash he needed to meet his own obligations. The question was where to get it?

  Then there was the problem of what to do about Tunstall. He’d had more than enough of the tight-assed Englishman. Following Chisum’s lead, customers walked down the street to buy their supplies at lower prices. He’d lowered his prices only to have Tunstall match them. Given the choice of trading with Tunstall or the House at even pricing, people were choosing the Englishman. Tunstall offended a few small ranchers by cornering the market for winter feed. Between Chisum and Tunstall they’d recruited a small army of gunmen. Evans was already whining about the difficulty of obtaining stock for him. If he had to buy cattle to fill his next delivery for the reservation, he’d lose money on that too. It took cash to buy cattle, completing the circle back to the problem at hand. A rap at the door frame sounded behind him.

  “Dolan, I thought you’d best hear about this.”

  Dolan glanced over his shoulder. Brady stood in the doorway. Now what?

  “What is it, Sheriff?”

  Brady stepped in and closed the door. “I had to let Bonney go.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Tunstall dropped the charges.”

  Dolan reddened. Tunstall again.“Did he find his horses?”

  “In a manner of speakin’. Ty Ledger seen Jesse Evans deliver a herd to Fort Stanton. Tunstall figures that proves the kid didn’t do it.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “You know me, Dolan. I don’t plan to do a damn thing about it.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Tunstall. He says he’ll write letters to the editors of every newspaper in the territory complaining about the lack of law enforcement in Lincoln County.”

  “Big deal. People write to the newspapers all the time.”

  “That’s just the beginning. He says he’s going to make certain the Democrats have a competent candidate to run against me in the fall. He says the good citizens of this county benefited from a little competition in the mercantile business. Now it’s time for them to benefit from competent law enforcement. He said I should be sure to pass that along to you.”

  “Hmm, it seems our Mr. Tunstall is getting far too big for his britches. A man best be careful when that happens. He could choke on his necktie or suffer somethin’ even more unfortunate. You leave Mr. Tunstall to me, Sheriff. Now, let me ask you another question. Where do you stand with your tax collections?”

  Brady shrugged. “I’m about to send the year-end receipts to Santa Fe.”

  “How much?”

  “Three thousand or there about, why?”

  “I’m in need of a temporary loan.”

  “A loan of territorial taxes? I never heard of such a thing. What will Santa Fe say?”

  “You leave Santa Fe to me. Now go along back to your office. Pack up those tax receipts and bring them to me.”

  “You sure, Mr. Dolan?”

  “Sure as hell, Sheriff. Now get to it.”

  Brady let himself out.

  Dolan turned back to the window. Go on and write your letter, you scrawny little bastard. You want to play rough, I’ll show you rough. I’ll show you a damn war.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  South Spring

  Roth tugged the cinch finger-snug. The black snorted twin clouds of steam that let him know he had the saddle secured. He eased the stirrup fender off the saddle and gathered the rein at the corral rail. He felt her presence. She made no sound. He turned to her and smiled. She smiled weakly, a trace of something uncertain in her dark eyes. “I’m just ridin’ down to check the river valley herd. I’ll be back by suppertime.”

  She knew all this. It seemed not to matt
er when he discussed it with Señor John at supper last night. But that was before her dream. It woke her just before dawn, a dark presence. Señor John spoke of such men, one of those from his past. One of those was coming. She drew her shawl around her shoulders.

  Bounty hunters had to read the men they were after. Their lives depended on it. He could read Dawn sometimes, but like most women, not always. He read her now. Something troubled her. He didn’t know what. “What’s wrong?”

  “Dawn Sky had a dream.”

  “About?”

  “A man.”

  She could be short on words sometimes. “What sort of man?”

  “A man with a gun.”

  “Lots of men have guns.”

  “Not men who try to kill you.”

  He put an arm around her, as much for the cold as her fear. “Look, I’m goin’ down to check the river valley herd. I’ll be back for supper. There ain’t nothin’ between here and the Rio Pecos but coyotes and maybe a deer or two.” He kissed her hard. She held him to her soft warmth. “Now, don’t fret. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  She lifted her chin, her eyes still veiled in uncertainty. He stepped into the saddle with a smile and wheeled away at an easy jog. She knit her brow, dissatisfied. Men.He did not listen.

  She turned away, determined. Her moccasins padded the hard ground along the corral fence to the stable. She stepped into dim light, the sweet smell of hay pungent with horse scent and a hint of warmth coming from the stalls. Horses made soft sounds quietly munching their morning feed. She heard the big black man in the loft, pitching hay to the stalls below. She climbed the ladder. He turned to greet her as she made her way along the loft among piles of fodder.

  “Mornin’, Miss Dawn.” He smiled, his teeth bright white in the shadowy light. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his broad dark features in spite of the cold. “What brings you climbin’ up here to see Ol’ Deac.”

  Deacon Swain came to South Spring with Wade Caneris. He was a big powerful man. A former slave in South Carolina he ran away early in the war and fought for the Union serving with distinction. He drifted west after the war, caught on with the cattle trade moving herds north from Texas to the railheads. He’d worked several drives for Caneris who respected the quiet competence of the dark giant. Dawn Sky quickly came to trust the man’s simple honesty. He accepted her dreams and visions without the questions that seemed to trouble so many whites.

  She returned his smile, sobered and held his eyes.

  “Ah, must be somethin’ a troublin’ you now.” He set the pitchfork aside. “What is it, Miss Dawn?”

  “Johnny gone to check the river valley herd.”

  “Someone do that most every day. I don’t see no trouble with that.”

  “Bad man comes to look for him.”

  “Bad man?”

  She nodded. “Bad man with gun.”

  “I ’spect this be one of them dreams of yours.”

  She nodded again.

  “Did you tell Mr. John?”

  She shook her head. “Señor John is afraid for Dawn Sky to marry Johnny because of the bad men who follow him.” Her eyes filled with appeal.

  “So you want Ol’ Deac to follow along and keep an eye on him.”

  She nodded.

  “Who’s goin’ look after feedin’ these horses here then?”

  She smiled and picked up the pitchfork.

  Pecos River Valley

  Crystobal drew rein. The sun climbed the morning sky, bright with a false promise of warmth. At least it did not snow. He reached under his serape and withdrew a cigarillo from his shirt pocket. He scratched a lucifer to light on the broad pommel of his Mexican saddle. He blew a mask of blue smoke and steam, savoring the harsh tobacco burn. He took warmth from hatred where his serape gave way to chill. He swept his eyes across the surrounding high desert hills, studded in snow-frosted juniper. His horse dropped its nose to sniff the frozen ground in search of something to browse. It could not be much farther to the Long Rail hacienda. With luck he would find him. He picked up the horse’s head. His ears pricked up. He picked up his prance, anxious to be away. Crystobal eased him forward, weaving his way through the hills to avoid the skyline.

  Two hours later a lone rider jogged out of the hills to the north angling southeast to the river. Crystobal eased his horse into the shade beside a stand of juniper and watched the rider. A small smile creased his thin lips. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. The gringo rides alone.With fortune such as this, he may have the pleasure of giving him a slow death. He swung onto Roth’s back trail, keeping one eye on his prey while he searched for a place to ambush him.

  The sun climbed high toward midday, burning off the morning chill with too little warmth to make up for a cutting wind. Something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was Dawn and her dream. Roth had seen enough of her knowings and visions over the past year so as not to dismiss them out of hand. She had a knack for something she couldn’t explain. He didn’t understand it and neither did Chisum who had years of trying. This morning he had a strong feelin’ he was bein’ followed. He’d had that feeling before. He remembered the day a year ago. He’d checked his back trail all the long day before the night the Comanche captured him. He didn’t like the feeling. He checked his back trail for the third time. Nothing.

  Midday wore into early afternoon. The trail mounted the crest of a ridge and fell away in an easy dun-gray meander to the river valley below. The herd sprawled along the grassy riverbank, peacefully grazing and watering just like it should. No trouble here. He’d catch a bite of lunch and ride home. Routine, just like it should be. Things should have eased his mind for the thought. They didn’t.

  Crystobal followed the river below the rim of the valley wall to avoid painting his presence on the skyline. He drew rein and stepped down. He climbed to the crest and dropped to a knee. A half mile below, Roth’s pony picked its way down the slope. He studied the valley wall to the south. A quarter mile further on another dry wash dropped through the hills, out of sight along the line Roth would follow. He smiled, returned to his horse and picked up a lope tracking his prey at a pace sufficient to overtake him.

  Near the valley floor Roth felt it again. Son of a bitch,he just couldn’t shake it. He checked his back trail one more time. Dust sign this time sure as hell. He checked the trail ahead. A rockfall piled around a narrow wash spilling in from the west. He could fort up there and wait to see who was on his trail. Dawn may have had the right of it after all. He eased the black on down to the wash and nosed him around a large boulder.

  A shot rang out. The bullet bit the boulder behind his head, singing its death song in a shower of stone chips. Roth dropped from the saddle and scrambled into the rocks.

  That was close. He peered through a crevice between two boulders. The shot came from somewhere up the trail he’d been riding. Slightly below him he guessed from the angle, somewhere below the south wall of the wash. The decision to pull off the trail likely messed up the shooter’s ambush and saved his life in the bargain. Saved it, for now at least.

  “You are one lucky hombre, gringo.”

  The voice echoed across the wash. Crystobal.“And you’re one lousy back shooter, Crys. Can’t draw, can’t shoot and that’s before the ladies speak up.” Roth ducked. Wild rifle fire showered him in rock chips. “Why don’t you throw that rifle where I can see it and com’on out so we can settle this like men?”

  “You’re a dead man, gringo.”

  “And you’d sooner piss your pants than face me.”

  Two more shots exploded and whined. “Waste of good ammunition, dumb ass.”

  The throaty report of a heavy-caliber rifle echoed down the wash from above. Two quick shots answered. Powder smoke gave up Crystobal’s position.

  “Looks like we got company, Crys. Company that plays on my side.”

  “You all right, Mr. Johnny?”

  Roth smiled. He recognized the voice and had a pretty good idea of how it got there.
“I’m fine, Deac. Keep the son of a bitch pinned down with your Henry. Since he won’t face me, I’m just gonna have to kill him.”

  The west side of the wash opened fire from above and below. Swain and Crystobal traded rounds fast and furious. Roth drew his guns and eased down to the base of the rockfall that covered him. He crouched low and dashed across the trail to the far wall. He worked his way down the slope judging the distance to the Mexican pistolero’s position. He moved on a few yards to an opening where he judged he could come around behind the man. The shooting fell silent. Time to reload, he guessed. That made it time to move. He slowly climbed the wash wall where it grew shallow near the valley floor.

  The flashy black burst from the rocks before he reached the crest. Crystobal lay on the horse’s neck, trailing covering gunfire as he galloped away. Roth rose up and fired to no effect as his assailant disappeared around a nearby outcropping and hightailed away. He’ll be back. Count on it.

  Moments later Swain eased a sturdy bay down the trail. Roth climbed down from the rocks.

  “Sorry I didn’t get him, Mr. Johnny. He got his-self up and run ’afore I could reload.”

  “Don’t give it another thought, Deac. I was mighty pleased to see you and Mr. Henry there come along when you did.”

  “Don’t thank me. You best thank Miss Dawn. She know’d you be in trouble. She made Ol’ Deac come after you.”

  “I figured as much. Let’s grab us a bite to eat and go on home. I figure we’ve seen the last of that one for a spell.”

  They ground tied their horses in the wash near the crest of the ridge. Roth didn’t expect the Mexican pistolero would come back so soon, but holding the high ground with cover never hurt. Deac boiled up a pot of coffee to take the chill off and wash down a hardtack trail lunch. They settled across the fire to eat.

  “How does she do it?” Roth said almost to himself.

  Swain shook his massive head. “No way to tell, but she sure ’nuf do it. I seen it with that Patch man you tracked last year. Now this.”

  “She warned me. I guess I should have listened. Even more so when I got the feelin’ I was bein’ followed.”