Bounty of Greed

by Paul Colt

  “There’s no one hiding here.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Do you have a search warrant?”

  Peppin fingered the badge on his chest. “This is all the warrant I need.”

  “Oh, but it’s not!” Leverson said.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Montegue Leverson, attorney at law. The law requires that you have a warrant to search a citizen’s home. In this case it is doubtful you have the authority to obtain one regardless of what you may have pinned to your shirt.”

  Peppin gaped at the Englishman.

  “Mr. McSween, Captain George Purington at your service. Recently I spoke with your wife at the Chisum ranch. I am authorized to offer you protective custody at Fort Stanton. I suggest you accept that offer and come along quietly. The situation in Lincoln has deterioriated since the shootings this morning. I am under orders to support civil authorities. That means searching your home. Now, I suggest you accept my offer. I can assure your safety at Fort Stanton.”

  “Captain, I’m appalled at your suggestion of an illegal search!”

  “I was addressing Mr. McSween, Mr. Levinson, or whatever your name is.”

  “It’s Leverson and you, may I remind you, are an officer of the United States Army. You are sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution. The Constitution protects this man’s home in the absence of a search warrant.”

  “To hell with the Constitution, I’m here to keep the peace. Now, Mr. McSween, will you accept my offer or not?”

  McSween turned to Chisum. “What do you think?”

  He paused. “We are in a poor position to protect you here. It might be best.”

  McSween met Susan’s worried expression.

  “And my wife?”

  “If you wish,” Purington said.

  “Very well.”

  Office of the Governor

  Santa Fe

  Axtell held Dolan’s telegram up to catch the last light before sunset. He scowled. The situation in Lincoln had gotten worse. Sheriff Brady gunned down in the street along with one of his deputies. Dolan claims the McSween-Chisum faction is responsible. The small ranchers have plainly had enough. Both sides were arming themselves. According to Dolan, the situation was a powder keg about to break out in open war. He had to do something to restore order, but what? Call out the army again? Publicly admit that civil order had broken down with the prospect of statehood on the horizon. That would never do. Hell, he’d have to answer to Elkins for that. He wanted another term. That didn’t include getting crosswise with the real power behind the Republican machine.

  He needed something, something that appealed to both sides. He needed to buy time. If he could reestablish law and order the whole mess might blow over. He drummed his fingers on the desk, letting evening shadows gather around him. He fished in his vest pocket for a lucifer and scratched it on the sole of his shoe. A bright flare pierced the gloom hissing acrid sulfur scent. He lifted the chimney to his desk lamp. The wick caught. He shook the match out and trimmed the wick. The chimney spread a soft glow across his cluttered desktop.

  That’s it. He nodded to himself. He’d appoint a grand jury and not just any grand jury. He’d make it an honest grand jury, one likely to find fault on both sides. Dolan wouldn’t like it, but how much damage could it really do him? It ought to stop the shooting for a spell. More important, it would send the right message to Washington about New Mexican law and order. Yes,he nodded. That’s it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Flying H

  The Regulators rode into the yard. Brewer took one look at the spent horses and knew there’d been trouble. McNab left his horse to the boys at the corral and made his way to the house. Brewer waited on the porch. He read the man’s expression.

  “Trouble, Frank?”

  He nodded.

  “Come in.” Brewer led the way inside. “What happened?”

  “Brady went for a gun. The Kid shot him. Somebody shot Hindman too. Next thing you know, Dolan men come runnin’. We shot it out on the street.”

  “What about Mathews?”

  “He got away.”

  “Who was with Dolan?”

  “Evans, a couple of his boys.”

  Brewer sat at the table deep in thought. “This ain’t over, Frank.”

  “No, it ain’t. It won’t be until we get the rest of ’em.”

  “You figure Evans and his boys will stay in Lincoln?”

  “I wouldn’t. Would you?”

  “No, I reckon they’ll lay low down at Seven Rivers.”

  “They’ll steer clear of the Pecos valley. Likely ride south through the Tularosa.”

  “That’s where we’ll cut their trail.”

  Blazer’s Mill

  April 4th

  Blazer’s Mill made a convenient rest stop for travelers on the road between Lincoln and Mesilla. The settlement served as home to the Mescalaro Agency. The large agency building and Dr. Blazer’s two-story home sat atop a low hill. The agency building also housed Dr. Blazer’s onetime dentist office and a restaurant catering to travelers operated by the agent’s wife. Further down the hill, a sawmill powered by Tularosa creek stood beside a small general store and post office. Two small adobe homes stood opposite the mill across the dirt ruts that passed for a street. A blacksmith shop, barn and corral meandered up the hill from the houses to the agency.

  Brewer and the Regulators rode in under a blazing midday sun. The posse included George Coe, John Middleton, Henry Brown, Charlie Bowdre, Fred Waite, Frank McNab, Tom O’Folliard, Doc Scurlock, Jose Chavez and Billy Bonney. They drew rein and stepped down at the corral. They watered their horses and put them up for a rest. Brewer led the way up the hill to the restaurant. He paused to catch Middleton’s eye on the porch.

  “John, pull up here and keep an eye peeled. We’ll have a plate sent out to you.”

  Middleton nodded and settled onto a bench overlooking the settlement as Brewer and the boys trooped inside. Within minutes Middleton’s head dropped to his chest. He snapped awake and swatted belatedly at the buzz of a fat black fly. Fighting the fly fought sleep. A lone rider appeared out of the distant sun haze, a dark figure, riding a mule. He watched the rider come. His stomach growled. Where the hell is that plate?The rider made a good excuse. He entered the restaurant and found Brewer.

  “We’ve got company.”

  Brewer, Coe and Brown followed Middleton back out to the porch. The rider drew rein at the post office and stepped down. Brewer squinted into the sun. “Any idea who that is?”

  “Buckshot Roberts,” Coe said.

  “We got a warrant for him. I want this one alive.”

  “He ain’t likely to go easy given the way things has gone so far. Let me have a talk with him. Maybe I can persuade him into surrendering.”

  “What makes you think he’ll listen to you?”

  “We’re neighbors. He’ll talk to me without goin’ for his gun. He gets wind of any of the rest of you, there’ll be gunplay.”

  “Good luck.”

  Coe started down the hill. Brewer and Brown turned to go back inside.

  “Dick, don’t forget that plate,” Middleton said.

  Finished with his business at the post office, Roberts drew the Winchester from his saddle boot and started up the hill to the restaurant and a hot meal. The sight of George Coe coming toward him registered an alarm. Coe might be a neighbor, but he’d sided with the McSween-Chisum faction. He may even have been among those who gunned down Brady and Hind-man. Coe smiled and waved. Roberts hefted the Winchester and waited.

  “Afternoon, Buckshot.”

  “Coe.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Can’t figure what for. I’m after some lunch. It’s a free country. You can walk along and say your piece if you want.” Roberts continued up the hill following a tumbleweed pushed along in the wind.

  Coe fell in beside him. “There’s a posse in the restaurant, Buckshot. They got a warran
t for your arrest.”

  He stopped. “On what charge?”

  “Tunstall’s murder.” Roberts glanced back down the hill at his mule. “Forget it. You’ll never get away.”

  “You gonna stop me?”

  “Not me. Dick Brewer’s got ten armed men in that restaurant. The only smart thing to do is give up. Brewer will see to it you get a fair trial.”

  “Right, same as Baker and Morton.”

  “They brought that on themselves, same as you if you try to run. Now, why not hand over that rifle. We’ll get some lunch and get you locked up safe and proper.”

  “Bullshit. I might believe you, George, but some of them in there has blood on their hands.”

  “Now, don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions. Com’on and sit a spell. I bet we can work out a deal.” He led the way down the porch away from the restaurant door.

  Roberts mulled his situation. It didn’t look good. Ten guns to one got a man dead. “What kind of deal you talkin’ about?”

  “You didn’t kill Tunstall, but you know who did. You could trade your testimony for safe passage. Most judges would treat a man kindly for that.”

  Wrinkled brows gathered, bunched in thought. Coe had a point. Was Mathews and Evans worth dyin’ for?He thought a bit more.

  “Buckshot Roberts ain’t no sellout.”

  Inside the restaurant the Regulators finished their meal. What passed for patience had worn thin. Bowdre stood across the table from Brewer.

  “Coe ain’t gonna talk Roberts into surrenderin’. Would you after what happened to Baker and Morton?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Com’on, Dick, let’s get this over with.”

  “All right, men, this is it. We give him his chance. Let’s take him alive if he’ll let us.”

  Bowdre led the way outside with his gun drawn at his side. The sight of the Regulators filing out of the restaurant startled Roberts. He stood with the Winchester leveled at his right hip. Bowdre cocked his gun.

  “Hand that rifle over to George and put up your hands, Roberts. You’re under arrest.

  Roberts stepped back from Bowdre’s advance separating himself from Coe. “Not a chance.”

  Two shots exploded. Roberts’ shot knocked Bowdre down. The bullet glanced off his belt buckle, hitting Coe in his gun hand. Bowdre’s bullet hit Roberts in the groin. The old man staggered with a grunt, straightened himself and levered his Winchester, firing from the hip. His first shot hit Middleton in the chest. A second blast erupted without pause, striking Doc Scurlock’s still holstered gun. The Regulators scattered for cover, firing wildly. Roberts swept the yard with the rifle muzzle. The Bonney kid had aim. The Winchester kicked. A nick in the arm bought time.

  Roberts backed down the hill toward his mule, stitching the agency yard with covering fire. He reached one of the adobe houses across from the mill as his rifle clicked empty. A bad situation had gone worse. He looked down the hill to his mule. He had a box of cartridges in the saddlebag. He just might make it. Then what? He doubted he could ride with his wound, let alone long enough to get away. He ducked into the house for cover. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the dim light, searching for ammunition. He’d sure as shit backed himself into a corner now. Coe might have pulled off his deal, but with three or four of them sons a bitches down, there’d be no deal makin’ other than decidin’ who got the kill shot.

  Then he saw it. He hobbled across the room, using the useless Winchester for a cane. An old .50-caliber Sharps buffalo gun stood in the corner with a box of bullets on the table beside it. Well I’ll be. It’s a fightin’ chance.

  He grabbed the rifle and the cartridges and limped back to the door. Using the door frame for support, he slumped to the floor. He opened the box of shells, cracked the breach and slipped a heavy-caliber bullet into the chamber. Pain radiated from his wound. His pant leg felt cold and sticky wet. Fatigue pressed against his eyelids. His breathing came ragged.

  The hillside was quiet. The Regulators waited, guns trained on the house where Roberts holed up. Brewer and McNab stood beside the agency building. McNab scratched his chin. “Looks like we got us a standoff, Dick. What do you figure to do?”

  Bullshit!Brewer fumed. The gut-shot old bastard knocked down five good men. “Burn the son of a bitch out.”

  “That should work. How do you want to play it?”

  “Slip on down to the blacksmith shop, Frank. I’m goin’ down the creek bank to the sawmill. Give me time to get in position, then see if you can get him talkin’. Tell him we’re gonna burn him out unless he gives up. If he doesn’t give up, he may show himself trying to get a shot off. If he does, I may be able to get a shot at him.”

  McNab nodded and moved off down the hill.

  Brewer crunched down to the creek bank, out of sight of Roberts’ position. He made his way down the creek bed to the mill. He crawled up the bank to a pile of logs stacked beside the mill.

  “Roberts!” McNab called. “It’s no good. You’re surrounded. Give yourself up or we’ll burn you out.”

  A shadow moved beside the dark doorway.

  “Go to hell!”

  Brewer fired.

  The bullet whined through the open doorway and bit a chunk out of the adobe back wall. Roberts risked a glance out the door. Powder smoke drifted off from the woodpile beside the mill. He eased himself down to his belly and backed away from the door covered in shadow. He set up his shot at the woodpile and waited for the shooter to show himself. Time passed. Sun glinted on a gun barrel. The heavy muzzle wavered before his aim. A hat crown moved atop the log pile. The shooter’s head came up to take aim. The Sharps exploded in a deafening roar that reverberated in the small room. A cloud of powder smoke filled the darkened doorway. The shooter’s head burst in red mist and bone splinters.

  “Got him!” The victory crow choked to a cough.

  The Regulators watched in disbelief. Dick Brewer dead was more than they could stomach. Fred Waite scuttled down the hill to McNab.

  “He ain’t worth it, Frank. He can bleed to death for all I care. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Hitch a team to that wagon at the corral for Dick’s body, Middleton, Coe and Bowdre. The rest should be able to ride.”

  Waite set off for the corral.

  “You’ve cost us more than you’re worth, Roberts. Your ticket to hell is already punched. Die slow.”

  Roberts laughed, punctuated by fits of coughing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Flying H

  The ranch house looked like a field hospital left over from the war for all the wounded and injured lying around. Middleton was flat on his back nursing a chest wound. Bowdre suffered little more than a belly ache, thanks to his belt buckle. Coe wasn’t so lucky. The surgeon at Fort Stanton amputated his damaged trigger finger. Scurlock had a bad bruise and the need of a new gun. The Bonney kid paced the house like a caged cat, paying scant heed to his sore ass and bandaged arm.

  “First Mr. Tunstall, now Dick. Who’s going to run this outfit next?”

  Waite looked up from cleaning his gun. “I say Frank. Anybody say any different?” Nobody did. “Frank, you’re captain of the Regulators. What’s our next move?”

  “We still got killers to bring down, but first we better get some of you boys up and about.”

  “We wouldn’t have got near so shot up if we’d just killt the son of a bitch,” the Kid said. “Playin’ lawman is dangerous.”

  He got some murmurs of agreement Ty didn’t like. “You boys got them badges to enforce the law. You take up murderin’ the accused, the law will treat you no better than them.”

  The Kid laughed. “We killt ’em all so far. The only thing we’re arguin’ over is how many of us get shot in the bargain.”

  “The Kid’s got a point,” McNab said.

  Waite nodded.

  Ty didn’t like the sound of it. Brewer couldn’t control these men. McNab, it appeared, lacked Brewer’s resolve. He needed to talk to McSween. He needed to get Luc
y out of that store.

  Lincoln

  He rode down the riverbank north of town. Sunlight filtered through the trees dappled the hillside. The river rushed downstream swollen with spring runoff. The gurgles and splashing swallowed the occasional scrape of the steeldust’s hoof on a stone. The riverbank told him when he’d reached the center of town. The muddy scars of the Regulators’ escape were plainly visible coming down the hillside. A little further upstream, his trail led to the back of the store.

  The steeldust charged the hill, fighting for footing on long powerful strides. The big gelding crested the ridge at the back of the store and shook off the exertion. Ty stepped down and dropped him a ground tie. He climbed the steps to the back door and paused. He knocked, remembering Big Jim should be watching over the place.

  “Who is it?”

  “Ty.” The door squeaked open. “How are things?”

  “Quiet as a church, for now.”

  “Good.” He stepped past the big Regulator into the store. He nodded to Susan as he passed the teller cage. The store was empty. He found Lucy dusting a shelf. She ran into his arms and hung on hard.

  “I’ve been so worried. We heard about that awful business at Blazer’s Mill.”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  She sagged against him, her worry spent. “Com’on.” She took him by the hand and led him to the back door. “Susan, can you watch the store for a few minutes?”

  She smiled.

  Ty paused at the teller cage. “Is Alex in?”

  “He’s in the office at home.”

  “Good. I need to speak with him.”

  Lucy led the way out into the sunshine on the back loading platform. The door clicked closed, leaving them alone with the rustle of the trees and the soft sounds of rushing water. She turned into his kiss. Sun and chill breeze, the faint twitter of birdsong, lost in a warmth that touched her essence.

  “There, that’s better.” She hugged him. “I was so frightened for you.”

  He lifted her chin. “No. I’m the one frightened for you. You’ve got to get out of the store. That shoot-out last week got way too close to the woman I love.”