Bounty of Greed

by Paul Colt

  “Maybe next time you come to learn some.”

  “So how’d she happen to convince you to follow me?”

  He chuckled deep in his belly. “Miss Dawn, she got her ways. She can make Ol’ Deac do most whatever she please.”

  “She can be single-minded when she fixes to. What did John say?”

  “She don’t tell Mr. John. She done my chores so’s I could go without gettin’ in no trouble. She’s fixin’ to marry you, you know.”

  He laughed. “So I’m told.”

  “A man couldn’t do no better than Miss Dawn. Best be good to her.”

  Roth rode with his thoughts on the trail back to South Spring. Swain’s curiosity got the better of him as the sun descended into the west.

  “Why was that Mex shootin’ at you, Mr. Johnny?”

  Roth nodded. He didn’t much want to talk about it. Then again, he owed Deac and talking might help his current troubles some. “Name’s Crystobal. He’s a gun for hire. Works for Evans down here. I crossed him in Santa Fe last year. He called me out for crowdin’ in on a woman he figured belonged to him. He lost. I thought I finished him. Turns out I didn’t. Now he’s come lookin’ for me.”

  “A woman, that must a been before Miss Dawn.”

  Roth cocked an eye and smiled. “It was.”

  “So what you fixin’ to do about this Crystobal? He run off, but he’ll be back.”

  “I’ll have to face him sooner or later.”

  “Ain’t none of Ol’ Deac’s business, but if I was you I’d make it sooner before later. Miss Dawn says he’s a trouble to Mr. John. You don’t want a go frettin’ Mr. John none.”

  “I know. Trouble is, Deac, I got a past. Crystobal may not be the last one to come gunnin’ for me. John worries about Dawn Sky like she was his daughter. Can’t say I blame him. Not much I can do about the past. For now, I’ll just have to deal with Crystobal and do it soon.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  South Spring

  Winter sun set early. Temperatures dropped fast when it did. Horses and riders huffed clouds of steam in the glimmer of starlight as Roth and Swain jogged through the gate. Lamplight set the hacienda and bunkhouse aglow with warm welcome. They turned their horses toward the barn, drew rein and stepped down.

  Swain smiled bright in the fading light. “Let me put up these horses,” he said, taking Roth’s rein. “You best get on up to the house.” He lifted his chin to a figure, standing in the porch shadow, her breath haloed in the first pale glow of moonlight. “Someone’s waitin’ on you.”

  Roth passed him the rein with a grateful nod. “Thanks, Deac. Thanks for everything.”

  His old slouch hat bobbed. “You go along now and take good care of that little girl.”

  Little girl.Roth crunched across the yard. He bounced up the steps and swept her up in his arms. She shivered against him, her arms fierce with possession. Cinnamon in her hair mingled with the scent of new snow. She lifted her chin, her eyes in his.

  “He came?”

  “He did. Deac ran him off. Thank you for sending him.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Did you tell John?”

  She shook her head. “Señor John does not want Dawn Sky to love you. He is afraid bad men will hurt her.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Only if you are hurt.”

  He took her lips in his. Time slowed. He gave her warmth in the cold.

  She sighed and rested her head against his chest. “Come in. Supper is ready.”

  It felt good to be home.

  Flying H

  The kid arrived with a break in the weather. With spring still a long way off, even a little warm-up thawed the hard edges. Brewer sat at the table and read Tunstall’s letter by the sooty light of the kitchen window. “Well, it appears you’re hired, Bonney.” He turned to Middleton. “John, show William here where to stow his gear. Then gather up the boys. The boss has a job for us.”

  “William is it.” Middleton looked amused.

  “Aw shucks, call me Billy. All my friends do.”

  “All right, kid. Com’on. Bunks are in back.”

  Tunstall’s Regulators gathered in the Flying H parlor. Brewer checked the room. Middleton, Big Jim French, Henry Brown, Fred Waite and the new kid, everyone accounted for.

  “Boys, it seems the boss has run out of patience with Brady. Jesse Evans delivered fifty head of horses to Fort Stanton last week. To me that sounds like proof of what we smelled. Brady won’t do nothin’ about it.”

  The men exchanged looks.

  “The boss thinks maybe we should take a ride down to Seven Rivers and have a talk with Evans. See if we can get to the truth of it or at least let the son of a bitch know we ain’t fooled.”

  The men brightened at the prospect of a little action.

  “I’ll ride on over to South Spring to see if Chisum wants some of his boys in on the action. I’ll be back day after tomorrow. We’ll sort out a plan then.”

  South Spring

  Swain paused, a forkful of hay poised over the stall below. A black spec moving through the hills caught his eye. He squinted against the slanting afternoon sun. “Rider a-comin’.”

  Caneris ambled over to the barn door. His eyes swept the hills south of the gate. Dust sign marked a lone rider. He waited and watched. These days in the Pecos valley a man never knew. The man drew closer and wheeled through the gate at an easy lope. He recognized Dick Brewer. Instinctive tension eased. Brewer pulled up and slipped down.

  “Good day, Wade.”

  “Dick, it’s been a while. What brings you up here?”

  “A bit of business for Tunstall. Probably best if I chew it once. Is Chisum around?”

  “Up to the house. Come along, maybe he’ll find us a cup of coffee.”

  “That’d go good about now.”

  They trudged up to the house. Caneris knocked on the door. “Comin’ ” came with muffled footsteps within. Chisum opened the door.

  “Hello, Dick. You lookin’ for strays?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “Com’on in. You too, Wade. Me and Johnny was just havin’ a cup of coffee. Care to join us.”

  “I was hopin’ you’d ask,” Brewer said.

  Roth stood to greet the new arrival as the men trooped into the dining room. They pulled chairs around the table. Dawn Sky appeared with fresh cups and the coffeepot. Chisum took his seat at the head of the table. “What’s up, Dick?”

  “I ’spect you heard we lost some horses a couple of weeks back.”

  “We did.”

  “It’ll come as no surprise then that Brady ain’t done shit about it. He made a show of arresting an innocent man. Tunstall dropped the charges against him.”

  “What makes you so sure he was innocent?”

  “Two things. First, he says he didn’t do it.”

  They laughed.

  Brewer sobered. “Second, Jesse Evans sold fifty head of horses to the army at Fort Stanton three days after our herd was stolen.”

  Chisum clenched his jaw. “Now that sounds more like evidence. We’ve knowed Evans for a rustler for some time now, but this is the closest anyone’s ever come to provin’ it.”

  “Well it ain’t proof enough for Brady to so much as get up off his ass and go ask a few questions.”

  “Likely he and Dolan know the answers already and ain’t interested in anybody else findin’ out what they are.”

  “That’s pretty much the way we see it, John. Mr. Tunstall asked me and the boys to ride down to Seven Rivers and poke around to see if we can find out anything or at least let Evans know we’re on to him. I thought you might want to have a hand in it.”

  “I’m all for sending Evans a message. Far as I’m concerned, he or any of his boys so much as leave a horse droppin’ on South Spring, I’ll be pleased to stretch his neck from the nearest tree.”

  “My men and I are ridin’ day after tomorrow. Anyone you want to ride with us is welcome to stay the night at t
he Flyin’ H tomorrow.”

  Roth turned to Chisum. “I’d like to ride along, John.”

  Chisum took his interest with a nod. “Take Frank and Tom with you.”

  “I expect you’ll want to start back in the morning, Dick.”

  Brewer nodded.

  “Good, then you’ll join us for supper. Johnny will fix you up with a place to bed down in the bunkhouse.”

  Roth eased his chair back. “I’ll tell the boys to get ready.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Seven Rivers

  Brewer threw up a hand and brought the band down to a walk. The horses needed a blow from the brisk pace he’d pushed on the ride down to Seven Rivers. Roth and Chisum’s man, Frank McNab, flanked Brewer at his stirrups. They had a warm day by January standards, which meant the cold wasn’t bad enough to numb a man’s fingers. The sun dodged in and out of puffy gray clouds, muting the warmth with gusts of chill and a threat of snow if the clouds were to get organized.

  “How much farther?” At six feet tall with broad shoulders, square jaw and clear blue eyes, McNab made a commanding presence. He exuded a quiet confidence that usually placed him in a leadership position when gunmen gathered. In this case, Brewer had that job courtesy of the paymaster.

  Brewer cocked an eye to the sun. “An hour or so, if we keep up the pace.”

  Further back a ruddy young Irishman eased his horse up beside the kid. He had an unruly shock of red hair peeking out from under his hat brim, a splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose and a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “So, how long you been workin’ for Tunstall?”

  Billy measured his questioner. “Who’s askin’?”

  “Tom O’Folliard.” He flashed a ready smile.

  The kid caught the mischievous schoolboy look in his eye, somewhat out of place among the hardened gunfighters that made up this bunch. He had one too. “William Bonney.” He extended a hand across his saddle. “My friends call me Billy.”

  O’Folliard took his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Billy.”

  “I signed on with Mr. Tunstall a couple weeks back.”

  “I thought Brewer did all the hirin’ for that outfit.”

  “Mostly he does.” The kid straightened in his saddle. “He hired me on Mr. Tunstall’s say so.”

  “Handpicked by the man himself.” O’Folliard looked impressed.

  “S’pose you could say that. I’m mighty grateful to him for springin’ me out of the Lincoln jail the way he done.”

  “Jail, how’d he do that?”

  “That son of a bitch Brady locked me up for stealin’ some of Mr. Tunstall’s horses. I didn’t do it. Mr. Tunstall believed me. He dropped the charges and got me out. We’re on our way down to Seven Rivers to find the man who truly took them horses.”

  “That part I knew. ThisTunstall must be a stand-up hombre.”

  The kid nodded. “Mr. Tunstall is the only man ever treated me like I was free-born white.”

  Brewer turned in his saddle. “We’ll be crossin’ into Seven Rivers range pretty soon now. Be on the lookout for range stock.” He squeezed up a lope.

  Brewer drew rein at the crest of the valley wall. The men fanned out in a line to his left and right. A ramshackle ranch house and outbuildings nestled in the shallow valley below. A broken-down corral stood empty beside a barn with a sagging roof. They found no sign of Flying H stock on the ride down. A wisp of smoke from the ranch house stovepipe gave the only sign of life below.

  McNab scanned the horizon. “Looks like they’ve cut and run or gone off somewhere.”

  Brewer eased forward in his saddle. “You’re sure no one’s down there. How can you tell from here?”

  “Fire’s dyin’. They ain’t been gone long, but they’re gone.”

  Roth had his doubts. “Let’s ride on in. Maybe we get lucky and pick up a trail or find somebody who’ll tell us where they’ve gone.”

  McNab glanced at Roth. “Tell us?”

  Roth shrugged. “Might take a little encouraging.”

  “Just might. Spread out men. Don’t give ’em no bunched-up targets.”

  A search of the house and barn turned up the embers of a dying fire. They found fresh horse sign around the corral, but no more trail than one rider gone here and another there. Mc-Nab waited on the ranch house porch with Roth while Brewer and the rest of the men finished their search. Brewer was the last to return. He looked from man to man with little to show other than a head shake, a shrug or the occasional grunt.

  “Nothin’. It’s like they knew we was comin’.”

  McNab shifted a match stick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Sure looks that way, don’t it.”

  Brewer spat. “Hell of a long ride for nothin’.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lincoln

  He’d done it. The prissy little shit had gone and done it. Brady tossed the New Mexicaneditorial page aside. “A man of competent credentials,” to run against me; who might that be?Hell, it could be anybody. The question was what’s to be done about it? Dolan wouldn’t like it. He already had it in for Tunstall, plenty. He could count on Dolan. Unless Dolan decided he might lose. Then what? Play the game, do what you’re told and this is the thanks you get.

  The dinner crowd at the Wortley dining room mostly catered to drummers. This night James Dolan and George Peppin had a back corner table. Dolan pushed last week’s issue of the Santa Fe New Mexicanacross the table.

  “Read this.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass and took a swallow.

  Peppin picked up the paper. He drew a pair of smudged spectacles from his inside vest pocket and fitted the wires over his ears.

  Dear Editor,

  As a businessman recently arrived in New Mexico, I have quickly embraced territorial aspirations to statehood. It is widely understood that the establishment of law and order is essential to winning admission to the Union. It is with grave concernthen that I must report the shoddy record of performance in that duty byWilliam Brady, the current sheriff of Lincoln County.

  Recently, a small ranch holding of mine was victimized by a murderous band of cutthroat horse thieves. Fully fifty horses were stolen in the dark of night at considerable risk to the lives of my foreman and ranch hands. Sheriff Brady made no effort to investigate the crime until extreme pressure was applied on my own behalf as plaintiff. Only then did he arrest a man whose innocence was later established. An eyewitness reported the sale of fifty horses to the army post at Fort Stanton by credible suspects in the matter a mere three days following my loss. To this writing, Sheriff Brady has refused to investigate this report, raising questions concerning his own complicity.

  Sheriff Brady, a Republican, must stand for reelection this fall. I call on the law-abiding citizens of Lincoln County and all New Mexicans concerned for admission to statehood to apply their energies and support to defeat Sheriff Brady and root out corruption in Lincoln County law enforcement. I shall do all in my power to see that a man of competent credentials is selected to oppose him.

  Sincerely,

  John H. Tunstall

  Peppin passed the paper back across the table. “Kind of highfalutin’, ain’t he?”

  “That letter has run in every newspaper in the territory. Brady isn’t popular to start with. We’ve mostly kept him in office by seeing to it he runs unopposed. Up to now the Democrats haven’t been able to find their ass with either hand in a well-lighted room. Tunstall means to change that. He’s already caused plenty of trouble with his business dealings. We can’t afford to let him do any more damage to our little arrangement here, now, can we?”

  “What’s it to me, Dolan? I kind of like his little winter feed business. I grow it, cut it and his customers come pick it up. Pretty easy.”

  “At twice the price you get.”

  Peppin shrugged.

  “I’m not here to talk about hay, George. Though, if you like the arrangement, I’ll be more than happy to take over the contract should Tunstall, sh
all we say, default for any reason.”

  Peppin read the threat in Dolan’s expression. “If we’re not here to talk hay then, what do you want with me?”

  “I want you to run for sheriff in the fall.”

  “What about Brady?”

  “If you run, he’ll lose Republican backing. With it, you’ll beat whoever Tunstall and the Democrats come up with.”

  “Hedgin’ your bets already? Tunstall’s really got your number, don’t he?”

  Dolan scowled.

  “Why don’t you call out the son of a bitch and shoot him. It’d be quicker and a damn sight cheaper.” He glanced over Dolan’s shoulder at the door. “Speak of the devil, here he comes now.”

  Dolan followed Peppin’s gaze. Tunstall stood just inside the door with Lucy Sample and the McSweens. The waiter showed them to a table not far from the door.

  “Let’s get out of here. The air in here has got foul. We can continue our discussion over a drink at the cantina.” Dolan scraped his chair.

  Peppin led the way past the Tunstall-McSween table.

  “I say, George, good to see you.” Tunstall stood with a smile and offered Peppin his hand. He didn’t notice Dolan following along. “I didn’t know you were in town. I believe we’ve sold most of your cuttings from last fall.”

  “Pretty near.”

  Dolan stopped behind Peppin.

  “Ah, sorry, old man, I didn’t know you were, ah busy. Dolan.” A curt nod passed for greeting.

  “Com’on, George. Like I told you, the air in here has gone foul.”

  Tunstall chuckled. He nodded to the paper tucked under Dolan’s arm. “I see you’ve read my letter. It’s been in all the papers.”

  “So I hear. If you’re planning on running for sheriff, Tunstall, you best start carrying a gun.”

  “Oh, my heavens no, you flatter me. I shan’t run myself.” He sobered. “I merely mean to see to it that a competent man opposes your lackey.”

  “You best be careful, Tunstall, before that mouth of yours gets you killed.”

  “I believe that sounds like a threat, Dolan.”