by Ralph Cotton
“Never mind.” Summers shook his head, seeing no point in trying to explain. He went back to the matter of the racing stallion. “So you stole this man Swann’s stallion?”
“Oui, mes partenaires and I . . . stole him,” he said.
“Speak English—”
“My partners and I . . . stole the animal,” the man translated. “When my wound worsened . . . they left me here.” He gave a sudden violent cough. Blood trickled from his lips. He collected himself and gestured a nod toward the outer circle of darkness farther back in the cavern. “See . . . for yourself, mon ami. It is no . . . trail mule’s liver you were eating.” He gave a weak shrug. “I regret I had no onion . . . no garlic, or even sage—”
“It tasted fine,” Summers said, cutting him off. He didn’t want to talk about it. He picked up the torch and pushed himself to his feet. Rifle in hand, holding the torch out in front of him, he walked back into the cavern until he saw the grizzly remains of the butchered stallion lying on the stone floor.
“Jesus,” he whispered in the flickering glow of the torch, recalling his conversation with Ansil Swann at the auction barns in Denver City. Swann had purchased his bays as breeding stock for a black stallion, intending to develop racing stock equal to any animal on either side of the Atlantic. Summers’ wet gloved hand tightened around his rifle stock at the sight of a big stallion’s blood-streaked carcass lying boned to its skeletal core. Its severed head lay three feet away, a bullet hole gaping in its forehead, its tongue a-loll; its innards lay in a loose pile beside it. The animal’s skin had been peeled back as necessary and lay spread on the floor around it.
Summers stepped closer, just enough to see if what the dying man was telling him was true. Beneath his boots the stone floor was slick with blood. He held the torch down and saw the stallion’s broken right foreleg. Seeing it, he eased his hand on his rifle. At least the man wasn’t lying about the leg break. The break was as bad as any he’d ever seen—maybe worse. He let out a breath and pushed up his wet hat brim.
All right. . . .
There could be no excuse for the man and his partenaires stealing Swann’s stallion, yet, from the looks of the foreleg, Summers realized that the animal had had to be put down. No question about that.
He turned with the torch and stepped over to the fire. The stallion’s shiny black mane and tail lay in a heap on a flat rock. Summers reached down atop the pile and picked up a twelve-inch riding quirt the same color as the dead animal’s tail and mane hair. Inspecting the quirt, he noted the quality of the person who had braided it.
“It is . . . good work my partenaires do, eh?” the man said brokenly from his blanket.
“Yes, they do,” Summers replied, taken by the craftsmanship of the work. He slipped the loop of the quirt onto his wrist and ran the length of it between his thumb and fingers. It was flawless, as smooth as silk. The person braiding it had not used a simple three-strand plait, he noted. This was four strands, perhaps even five—the fifth strand woven into the body of the quirt in a way undetectable to the human eye.
“Is this what your partners and you do when you’re not stealing horses?” he asked.
Instead of replying the man coughed deep and wetly and fell silent. Summers left the quirt on his wrist and reached down and picked up a half-finished horsehair bridle from the pile of shiny hair. He shook his head slowly and had started to lay the bridle down when a voice called out from the dark entranceway.
“Freeze right there, mister,” the voice said. “Let that rifle fall from your hand!”
Summers froze, but he hesitated for a second before turning loose of his rifle.
“Suit yourself,” the voice said. “I’ll save us both a hanging.”
“Wait,” Summers said, sensing the man behind the voice was ready to pull a trigger. He let the Winchester fall to the floor cushioned by the pile of horsehair. “There, it’s down, see?” he said, still half-bowed at the waist. Now he would explain who he was, that he had nothing to do with any of this.
“Sidestep away from it, easy-like,” the voice demanded. “Get your hands up high.”
“Done . . . and done,” Summers said quietly, stepping away slowly, straightening and raising his hands above his shoulders, the shiny black quirt still hanging from his wrist. “I want to tell you straight up that I have nothing to do—”
“Shut your mouth, mister!” the voice snapped, cutting him off.
In a flash of lightning, Summers saw the man’s silhouette in the cavern entrance. A wide blackened hat sat above a long blackened duster. An aimed rifle. All of it vanished as the flash of light blinked back into darkness.
“I got one for you, Sheriff Bert!” the man called back over his shoulder. He cut a glance at the pile of horsehair lying beside the fire, then kept his eyes and his gun fixed on Summers. Behind him Summers saw torchlight appear in the cavern entrance and move forward.
“Hold him right there, Endo. We’re coming,” a voice called out in reply.
“Mister, you have stepped in a deep pile of it,” the posse man Endo Clifford said. “See this?” He patted a wet deputy badge pinned to his chest.
“I see it,” Summers said. “I can explain being here.” He nodded toward the cavern entrance. “The fillies and the dapple gray you saw back there belong to me. I saw a campfire and I came back in here to get out of the storm.”
“I just bet you did,” the man said. He jerked around quickly as a cough and a deep groan emitted from the darkness where the wounded man lay on his blanket.
“Ask him,” Summers said, nodding toward the sound.
“I bet I will,” the man said. As he spoke he stepped around the cavern and looked down where the man lay as still as stone, his dead eyes staring blankly at the dark ceiling. “Ha! He just coughed out his last breath,” he said. “If ol’ horse-thieving Hendrik here is your alibi, you best reach down into the jar again.”
Horse-thieving Hendrik. . . .
“What?” Summers said.
“Hendrik’s dead.” The rifleman chuckled. “Looks like you’re having one of them days, mister.”
“I’ve got paperwork here,” said Summers. He gave a nod toward the inside lapel pocket of his wet riding duster.
“I just bet you do,” the man said. “Reach for them and see how quick I start cutting you in half.” Thunder rumbled along the hillside above them.
Summers stood still and kept silent until five other men stepped into sight, the first one holding a torch above his head. Three of the five men were Mexican. Their sombreros drooped, soaked with water. Two were Americans, dressed in slickers, tall hats and range clothes.
“Well, well, look what we’ve got here,” said the torchbearer, stepping in and stopping a few feet away from Summers. He held the torch in his left hand and a long-barreled nickel-plated Remington Army revolver in his right. As he spoke, four more men stepped into the cavern, rifles up and cocked. One of the men moved all around, searching the cavern.
The leader looked away from Summers for a second and scanned the cavern, taking note of the horsehair, the half-braided bridle, then the quirt hanging from Summers’ wrist. “I hope that’s not what I think it is,” he said, staring at the quirt.
Summers didn’t answer; he realized how bad this looked for him. He never should have looped this shiny new quirt over his wrist, he told himself. Now the thing had trouble written all over it.
Before Summers could reply, the man searching the cavern stopped at the place where the stallion had been killed and butchered. He struck a long match and held it out.
“My God, Sheriff Bert, come look at this,” he said. “These sons a’ bitches have stripped Swann’s stallion to the bone.”
The man, Sheriff Bert Miller, glared at Summers as he sidestepped over toward the darkness with his torch.
“Keep your sights pinned on him, men,” he said to the
others. “He makes a move, kill him.”
• • •
Summers stood watching as three men kept him covered and three men searched all around in the cavern. After a moment, the leader walked back over calmly from the site of the slaughtered stallion and stood in front of him.
“That’s a hell of a mess,” he said. He took off his hat, slung water from it and put it back on. “I saw the leg break. But it never would have happened had you boys not stolen him.”
“I didn’t steal him, mister,” Summers said. “I saw the—”
“It’s not mister,” said the rifleman Endo Clifford, cutting him off. He stepped in close to Summers. “He’s Sheriff Bert. Call him mister again, I’ll feed you this rifle butt!” He jiggled the rifle in a threatening manner. Summers just stared at him.
“Easy, Endo,” Sheriff Bert said.
Summers continued, speaking to the sheriff while he stared hard at Endo Clifford.
“Like I said, I came in out of the storm, Sheriff,” he said. “I found everything you see here . . . except the dead man over there was still alive. I gave him some water—”
“Sheriff, look at this,” one of the men called out from beside the dead man’s blanket. He held up the tin pot of horse liver stew and stirred the spoon around in it. “Him and Hendrik were eating Swann’s stallion when we got here. The pot’s still warm.”
“You son of a bitch!” said Clifford, his rage overcoming his self-control. He drew back his rifle, ready to stab the butt into Summers’ face.
But the sheriff threw out a hand, stopping him.
“Whoa, Endo,” he said. “Don’t knock the man out while I’m talking to him. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Clifford cooled down.
“Sorry, Sheriff Bert,” he offered. “I just hate a damn horse thief, is all.”
“I’m not a horse thief. I’ve got paperwork, Sheriff,” Summers said. “Inside my duster, here.” He nodded at the lapel of his wet duster.
“This is Mexico. Your paperwork doesn’t mean much here,” the sheriff said. “Hector,” he called out to one of the three Mexican riflemen, “tell this gringo how much his paperwork is worth around here.”
“Ha,” said the stocky Mexican, “your paperwork don’t mean chit here, gringo.”
The sheriff chuckled under his breath at the Mexican’s pronunciation. “Chit . . . ,” he said, quietly mocking the man’s accent, grinning just between Summers and himself. He reached out and opened Summers’ duster. His hand went inside and rummaged for the paperwork on the four fillies.
“This is a bill of sales from the Denver City stock auction for the bays,” Summers said. “I’ve got one for the dapple gray in my saddlebags somewhere.”
“In your saddlebags somewhere,” the sheriff said casually, unfolding and rustling through the paperwork. He read it silently to himself.
“So what? You’ve got paperwork from El Paso City,” said Endo Clifford. “They’re the damnedest thieves and liars in the world at the El Paso Horse Auction.”
“He didn’t say El Paso City, Endo,” the sheriff said without looking up from reading. “He said Denver City. Pay attention, Endo.”
“Oh,” said Clifford. He looked stumped, but only for a second until he retaliated. “Well, they’re even worse thieves in Denver City!”
The sheriff finished reading the paperwork.
“Looks like everything’s in order,” he said. “Question is, is any of it true?”
“It’s all true, Sheriff,” Summers said. He wanted to lower a hand and reach for the paperwork, but something told him not to. “You can ask Mr. Swann. He’ll vouch for me.” He kept his hands raised.
Sheriff Miller folded the paperwork and shoved it inside his wet rain slicker. The glint of a five-point tin badge showed on his chest, then went out of sight.
“I’ve got another idea,” he said. He turned to Clifford and said, “Bring in the Belltraes. Let’s hear what they’ve got to say about this one.”
“The Belltraes . . . ?” Summers said, looking back and forth between Clifford and the sheriff.
Clifford gave him a tight, menacing grin. He stood with his rifle tense in his hands, as if eager to swing the butt around into Summers’ face.
“That’s right, horse thief,” he said. “We got your pals Ezra and Collard right outside the cavern—fixing to hang them soon as the storm lets up.”
“I don’t know any Ezra and Collard Belltrae,” Summers said.
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” said Clifford.
“Bring the brothers in,” Sheriff Miller called out to the two Mexican riflemen standing nearby. “Let’s see what they can tell us about Mr. Summers here.”
Chapter 3
As the storm continued to rage outside the cavern, one of the Mexican riflemen ran out into the stone causeway, holding up a torch to light his way. In a moment he returned with two more riflemen, who prodded two bound and wounded prisoners ahead of them with their rifle barrels. Thunder jarred the cavern like a cannon blast, then rolled away along the Mexican hill line. Summers stood watching in silence, his hands still chest high, the shiny black quirt hanging from his wrist.
Beside Will Summers, Endo Clifford gave a dark chuckle and spoke sidelong to him.
“Now you’re going to be sorry for every lie you ever told in your life, horse thief,” he said.
Summers just looked at him. He was getting an urge to hammer a fist into the deputy’s face.
The two prisoners staggered into the open cavern on the end of ropes drawn tight around their waists. Their arms were pinned to their sides, their hands tied behind their backs.
Ready to hang, Summers thought, from the looks of them.
The two were dressed in black, bare-headed and soaked from the storm. Their wet black hair hung in long strands partly covering their battered and swollen faces. The riflemen shoved them to the ground near the fire. Sheriff Miller stepped over and grabbed one by his loose shirt collar and dragged him upward to his feet.
“Don’t you pass out on me, Ezra!” he said, shaking the half-conscious man. To the rifleman nearest him he said, “Julio, help me hold him up.” He shook the battered prisoner again and swiped wet hair back from his marked and purple face. “Pay attention, Ezra!” he said in the man’s face. “You’ll get plenty of sleep once that rope jerks around your neck.” He drew back a hand as if to slap the man again. But he held back as the man struggled to hold his head up.
“I’m . . . awake,” the prisoner said over swollen lips.
Summers winced at the sight of split lips, cuts, welts.
“Good,” said Miller. He chuckled and shook the man again for good measure. “Now look at this man and tell me his name.” He roughly jerked the man’s face around toward Summers. “We know he was with you. Just tell us who he is. Save us from beating it out of you.”
“Wait a minute, Sheriff—” Summers started to protest, but his words were cut short as the butt of Endo Clifford’s rifle clipped a sharp blow to his ribs. He buckled slightly at the waist.
“Keep your mouth shut till you’re spoken to,” Clifford warned him. “Now straighten up.” He yanked Summers upright. Summers managed to keep his hand clutched to his ribs.
Miller gave them a glance, then looked back at the prisoner.
“Come on, Ezra, what’s his name?” said Miller. “Spit it out, and you can go on back to sleep.”
The prisoner looked at Summers through blackened swollen eyes, as if trying hard to recognize him.
“I—I don’t know his name,” he said weakly. “I never . . . saw him before.”
“Lying son of a bitch!” shouted Endo Clifford. He stepped away from Summers and closer to the prisoner. “Let me swat him a lick or two, Sheriff.” He drew back his rifle butt.
“Simmer yourself down, Endo,” Miller warned him. “We�
�ve got time to get the truth before we string them up.”
“This man is telling you the truth, Sheriff,” Summers cut in. “I don’t know these two men. Him either.” He nodded over toward the body lying on the blanket.
Miller ignored Summers and directed his words back to Ezra Belltrae.
“Here’s the thing, Ezra,” he said in a more reasonable tone of voice. “You know you and your brother, Collard, are going to hang, first thing when the storm lets up.” He looped an arm up onto the battered prisoner’s shoulders as he spoke. “There’s no two ways about it.” He shook his head. “You were seen stealing horses from Swann’s corral.” He gestured a hand toward the spot where the stallion had been butchered. “You’ve butchered and boned out his stallion. That’s the meat we caught you carrying, right?”
“We did . . . all that,” the prisoner admitted freely. “We take meat to the people at the old hill ruins.” He tried to stretch a thin smile onto his split and swollen lips.
“See, that’s the way,” said Miller, sounding encouraged. “Own up to what you did and be done with it. Get yourself hanged out here and save yourself the trip to Dark Horses. None of us wants to drag this thing out.” He gestured toward Summers. “Identify this man if he was with you and let’s hang everybody at once. Makes sense, don’t you think? Do it out here, save yourselves a lot of beatings, lots of abuse and getting spat on when you climb them handmade gallows steps in Dark Horses.”
“Yes . . . it makes sense,” said Ezra Belltrae. He leveled his swollen eyes onto Summers and stood up straighter.
“All right, now we’re getting somewhere,” said Miller with a breath of relief.
“I don’t know . . . this man,” he insisted, staring into Summers’ eyes.
“Damn it to hell!” said Miller. Turning to the gathered riflemen, he said, “Find a beam strong enough to swing a rope over. We’re hanging the Belltraes right now.” He stared coldly into Ezra Belltrae’s eyes. “I’m done with these Mex-Chinook half-bred Indian-French Micmac slope-head—whatever they are—sons of bitches!”
