Bounty of Greed

by Paul Colt

  “No threat, just neighborly advice.” He eased his coat back, exposing the butt of a gun resting in a shoulder holster. “Though I’d be more than happy to oblige if you ever have the guts to strap on a gun.”

  Tunstall laughed. “You can’t be serious; a duel? Dueling went out with powdered wigs.”

  “Not out here.”

  “Yes, I suppose I should have expected something like that of a hinterland colonial. You see that’s the problem with you, Dolan. You’re old school. It is precisely that sort of thinking that denies New Mexico’s aspiration to statehood. The voters of Lincoln County understand that. You’ll soon learn it too, come the next election. The noted English playwright, Edward Bulwer-Lytton said it best when he wrote, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ ”

  Dolan clenched his jaw. “We’ll see, Tunstall. Nobody ever got lead poisoning from a pot of ink.” Dolan turned on his heel and stalked out the door, trailing Peppin.

  Tunstall took his seat, making a show of arranging his napkin on his lap.

  “You know you really shouldn’t goad him like that, John.”

  He cocked an amused eye at McSween. “He makes it so deliciously easy.”

  “I’m telling you as a friend and your attorney. If Dolan decides to play rough, it will be his game and his rules. You won’t like either of them.”

  “He doesn’t frighten me. He threatened me in front of witnesses. Should anything untoward happen, he would be first to come under suspicion.”

  “A lot of good that will do if you’re dead. Ask yourself, who’s going to satisfy your corpse by enforcing the law?”

  Tunstall leaned forward as if to object. Lucy cut him off.

  “Alex is right, John. Men out here don’t do things the way they are done back in England.”

  “Yes, well it’s high time New Mexico got around to civil society.”

  Dolan’s head hurt. Cold morning sun streaming through the dusty office window did nothing for it. He’d let the damn Englishman get under his skin. He tried to put the anger out with whiskey and now he had to pay the price for that too. He should have shot the son of a bitch where he stood. Humiliate him like that in front of folks with his high-minded airs. Out here men died for less than that. Well, John Tunstall was as good as dead. He didn’t know where and he didn’t know when, but the man wouldn’t live to see election results. There, at least his anger felt some better.

  TwoWeeks Later

  McSween sat at his desk sipping his morning coffee. Bright sunlight reflected off a fresh snowfall filled the room with a cool white light. A rap at the door summoned his attention. He went to the door. The Englishman’s familiar silhouette stood on the porch beyond the lace-curtained window. He opened the door.

  “Good morning, John. What brings you by so early?”

  “Just this.” He drew a folded copy of the New Mexicanfrom under his arm and held it up.

  “Come in. I expect this means we’ve something to discuss.”

  “I should think.” He shrugged out of his heavy coat. Mc-Sween took it and hung it on the coat tree beside the door.

  “Come into the office.” He led the way. “Care for a cup of coffee?”

  “Thank you, no. I can’t make a taste for it. I’ve just had a cup of tea with my breakfast.”

  McSween took his seat, gesturing to a visitor chair across from the desk. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

  “This.” He unfolded the newspaper and laid it on the desk.

  McSween glanced at the banner. The paper was a week old. Tunstall pointed to a schedule of tax receipts printed in conjunction with the governor’s annual report to the territorial legislature.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Lincoln County tax receipts.”

  McSween traced a finger down the column. “Zero?”

  “Zero. I do recall you paying your taxes as well as remitting mine for me.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “My question exactly.”

  “You don’t suppose . . .”

  “Quite possibly. We do know our Mr. Dolan is, shall we say, pinched for cash.”

  “I find that hard to believe even of Jimmy Dolan.”

  “You may if you wish. As a taxpayer, I wish to know what became of my tax money. How do you suggest we proceed?”

  McSween paused. “I’ll wire the governor’s office and ask for an explanation.”

  Two Days Later

  Tunstall hunched over the bank ledger card when the visitor bell rang. McSween came through the door and glanced around the store. Tunstall waved from behind the teller cage. The lawyer crossed to the desk holding a sheet of yellow foolscap. He met Tunstall’s gaze.

  “You were right.” He slid the telegram across the teller counter.

  Tunstall read. The reply to McSween’s telegram to the governor’s office came from the US attorney’s office. It stated that proceeds of the Lincoln County tax receipts for the past year had been extended as a loan to the firm of J. J. Dolan with the approval of the appropriate authorities. The telegram was signed T. B. Catron. Tunstall slid the telegram back across the counter.

  “I suspected as much, but suspicion makes the admission no less outrageous.”

  “It is outrageous. Some might suggest criminal, but I’m sure no charge of that will ever be brought. Undoubtedly those responsible will have adequately covered their tracks for that.”

  “So you’re saying nothing can be done about this?”

  McSween shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s the case.”

  Tunstall pounded a fist in the palm of his hand. “Damn it! There must be something.” He lifted his gaze to the ceiling in thought. “I have it. The law may not be offended, but any man with a sense of fair play will be. We’ve caught the bloody bastard with his hand in the taxpayer’s cookie jar. We can expose that even if the law fails to do so.”

  “What are you thinking, John?”

  “Another exposé in the territorial newspapers seems appropriate.”

  “John, you don’t want to do that.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  “You saw how Dolan reacted to the Brady letter. You do it again and that gun of his won’t stay in the holster.”

  “You say. I say Dolan is nothing but a blowhard and a dishonest one at that.”

  “Dishonest maybe, but don’t bet he won’t use that gun.”

  “We shall see.”

  “If you write that letter, my advice is get yourself a gun and learn to use it.”

  February 6th

  The visitor bell clanged loud enough for a fire alarm. Jasper blinked behind his spectacles. The sheriff stomped off to Dolan’s office without so much as a good afternoon.

  Dolan was in a foul mood courtesy of another imbalance between his obligations coming due and cash on hand. The commotion coming from the store added to his irritation. Brady filled the door frame.

  “Have you seen this?” He tossed a paper on the desk and closed the door.

  Dolan picked up the New Mexican.This wasn’t a letter to the editor. This was a news story, but there could be little doubt of the origin. The Englishman was quoted as though the reporter had interviewed him. Not likely. They’d tried to talk to the governor’s office. That attempt had been passed to the US attorney’s office. T. B. Catron did his best to dismiss the suggestion of impropriety, but the facts at hand were presented as clearly irregular. All of it was laid at the doorstep of J. J. Dolan and Sheriff William Brady. They even went back to repeat the charges leveled against the sheriff in Tunstall’s earlier letter. Finished, he tossed the paper back at Brady.

  “I thought you said you’d take care of Santa Fe?”

  “I did, you idiot. You’re not under arrest, are you?”

  “No, but this ain’t gonna help if they find a Democrat to run in the fall.”

  “Fall’s a long way off. If we don’t find a way to stop that scrawny little English bastard, the election ain’t gonna matter. Now get out of here and let me t
hink.” He massaged his temples, another damned headache. The answer was plain enough. The pompous little Englishman just signed his own death warrant.

  Jasper tapped at the office door. “This letter come in from Santa Fe. Looks kind of official.” He handed a thick envelope across the desk.

  Dolan fumbled with his fine print reading spectacles and tore the envelope open.

  By order of the US District Court, New Mexico Territory . . .

  He refolded the order. T. B. Catron came through. He tapped the folded papers on his palm. He had a lien on Tunstall’s stock. It wasn’t a big thing when you considered the whole of the Englishman’s business interests, but that wasn’t the point. The point was what the righteous bastard might try to do about it. Dolan smiled. His head did feel some better.

  The office door swung open to a chill blast. Dolan stepped inside.

  “Sheriff.”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Dolan. What can I do for you?”

  He pulled up a chair beside the desk and took a seat. He stretched his legs and crossed his boots at the ankle. He folded his hands across his belly. He looked too smug for the roil in Brady’s gut. He had somethin’ on his mind or maybe up his sleeve.

  He glanced at the paper on Brady’s desk. “Kind of thrown down the gauntlet there, hasn’t he?”

  Years of dealin’ with the unruly had taught him when in doubt, bluster. “Talk’s cheap.”

  “Oh, that ain’t talk, Sheriff. The man’s dead serious. Told me so himself. I told him he might catch a case of lead poison if he didn’t watch himself. It appears he don’t listen too good.”

  Brady smoothed his mustache in the web of his thumb and forefinger. “So what are we goin’ to do about it?”

  Dolan lowered his voice. “Not we, Sheriff. You.”

  “All right then, what am I goin’ to do about it?”

  “Serve this.” Dolan tossed a packet of papers across the desk.

  Brady picked it up and read. He shrugged. “So you got a lien on his stock. He won’t like it. So what?”

  Dolan wagged a finger as though instructing a slow-witted child. “It’s all in how you serve the order, Sheriff.”

  “Are we gonna sit here all day with me guessin’ what the hell you want or are you gonna spit it out plain?”

  “Do I have to spell out everything for you?” He sighed in disgust. “All right, shut up and listen. You go on down to Tunstall’s store. You show him the court order. You tell him your men will be down to the Flying H to impound the stock next week. You get up a posse to do that. You put Billy Mathews in charge. If Tunstall objects, well, you know we can count on Billy to do the right thing.”

  Brady rocked back and smiled, remembering the Englishman’s letter. Yup, them’s competent credentials all right.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  February 11th

  The visitor bell split the morning stillness like a gunshot. Lucy jumped. Sheriff Brady stood in the doorway silhouetted in bright sunlight.

  “Tunstall here?”

  The abrupt question sounded official. “He’s in back. I’ll get him.” She hurried around from behind the counter and made her way through the shelves to the back of the store. She found Tunstall deep in a corner of the dimly lit stockroom.

  “Sheriff Brady is here to see you.”

  “Brady? Whatever might he want?” He wiped his hands on his apron and followed Lucy back to the store.

  “Good morning, Sheriff. Don’t tell me you’ve managed to apprehend those responsible for stealing my horses. No, I suppose not. That would be far too much to ask.”

  “Save your attitude, Tunstall. I’m here to serve a court-ordered lien on your Flying H stock.”

  “You’ll have to pardon me, I’m afraid. For a moment there I thought you said someone’s placed a lien on what’s left of my herd.”

  “That’s exactly what I said.” He handed over the court order.

  Tunstall scanned the document. “This is preposterous. The obligation is clearly that of the previous owner. I have no part in this.”

  “That’s not how the court sees it.”

  “Well, the court has misjudged the matter.”

  “That’s between you and the judge.”

  “Curious the alleged debt should be owed to James Dolan. This has the distinct odor of his Santa Fe friends about it.”

  “All I know is that my men will be down to the Flying H next week. Your boys best have them horses rounded up and ready to surrender.”

  “Mr. Dolan may be disappointed in the value of the remaining stock. You know we’ve suffered some recent losses to rustling. Oh, that’s right, you do know.”

  “That’ll be enough out of you. Just have those horses ready for my officers when they arrive.”

  “We shall see about that.”

  McSween read the complaint seated at his desk in the bookshelf-lined study that served as his home office. Midday sun filtered through lace curtains, bathing the room in a warm glow. Tun-stall paced the pegged floor, barely able to curb his anger.

  “Dolan is a rogue and a scoundrel. I don’t doubt for a moment that he’s trumped up this whole allegation simply to vex us.”

  “Hmm.” McSween set the order aside. “That may be so, but we’ll have to go to Santa Fe to fight it.”

  “I can’t be bothered by such a frightful waste of time.”

  “The only alternative is to pay off the lien.”

  “That is robbery.”

  “I agree; but you don’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “I shan’t be bullied.”

  “What do you propose to do about it?”

  “I’ll not surrender my horses for one thing.”

  “Then you’ll be found in contempt of court and thrown in jail. Look, John, the horses are small potatoes among the rest of your business interests. Surrender the horses and we’ll go up to Santa Fe and fight this thing.”

  “What makes you think we shall get a fair hearing, standing before a kangaroo court that makes its business the bidding of Dolan and his political cronies? I say we do every bit as well standing here defending our rights.”

  “You’re the one who’s always preaching law and order. How is it you can defy a court order when it inconveniences you?”

  “Fighting is a civic duty when the order is unjust.”

  “Agreed. And that’s why we need to go to Santa Fe to fight this according to the law.”

  “You fight it your way and I’ll fight it mine.”

  “I can just picture it. Your Honor, my client is unable to dispute the merits of the matter before this court as he is presently incarcerated in the Lincoln County jail held in contempt of your order. Now there’s a winning argument if I ever heard one.”

  “I see your point. You shall need a better argument then.”

  February 15th

  The Colt .44 revolver action worked smoothly. Tunstall hefted the weapon, extended his arm and sighted it through the storefront window on a water barrel across the street. Oil mingled with the scent of metal and polished wood. He’d prefer a shotgun. He had some experience hunting doves with those. Strictly a gentlemen’s outing, mind you, but firearm experience nonetheless. This weapon offered far less margin for error. Still he could take some comfort from the fact of having it. He thumbed the hammer and dry fired the gun. The sound reassured him.

  Lucy peeked out of the fabric shelves drawn to the sound. Her eyes widened at the sight of the gun. “What are you planning to do with that?”

  “Protect myself if need be. All you alarmists have convinced me I should arm myself.”

  “Have you any idea what to do with that?”

  “I’ve some experience with firearms.”

  “Enough to get yourself killed most likely. If you’re worried about needing protection, why don’t you send for a couple of the boys? You’re paying them to protect things. No reason that can’t start with you.”

  “Hmm, your usual practical thought, leave it to the professionals. I
shall have someone come along with me when I return. No time for that now, though. I shall see for myself until then.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I must ride down to the ranch to discuss the business of this court order with Dick.”

  “What is there to discuss?”

  “Lucy, my dear, you don’t suppose I’ll allow Dolan to bully me, do you?”

  “It’s like Alex says, right or wrong, he’s got the law on his side.”

  “There is no right to it in this case. The law is wrong. I can’t stop Brady from trying to serve his writ, but we don’t have to gift wrap my herd for him, either. If he wants them, he can round them up himself. I should think that by the time we are done, that will be no small undertaking. Put this pistol on my account, along with a box of cartridges and a holster.”

  She shook her head. You’ll get yourself killed.“At least see if Rob Widenmann will ride down there with you.”

  Flying H

  February 16th

  “Riders coming.” Fred Waite pointed off to the northwest. Brewer let down the fore hoof he’d been fitting for a shoe. He straightened up and followed the jut of Waite’s chin across the bay’s withers. The horse stamped as if protesting the interrup tion.

  “We expectin’ company?”

  “None I know of,” Brewer said.

  “Looks like Mr. Tunstall,” the kid called from the loft.

  Brewer squinted. It did: hawk-eyed pup, that one.

  Tunstall and Widenmann rode in at an easy jog. The kid scrambled down from the loft and waited at the corral to take their horses. They drew rein and stepped down.

  “Here, Mr. Tunstall, let me take them horses for you. I’ll cool them down proper and turn ’em out.”

  “Why, thank you, Billy. You’re most kind.”

  Brewer stepped around the bay’s rump, wiping his hands on a rag. He extended a hand. “Mr. Tunstall, Marshal, what brings you all the way down here?”

  “We have a situation to discuss, Dick. May we go up to the house?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Tunstall hunched his shoulders and set off for the house on a purposeful stride, trailing Widenmann behind. Brewer and Waite exchanged glances. The ramrod shrugged and hurried after his boss. Inside he pulled a couple of chairs up to the table.