by Ralph Cotton
“We found ol’ Hendrik dead back in the mine shafts last afternoon. Caught this one before he had time to get away—” Miller continued, until the young woman cut him off.
“We saw Hendrik’s body last night,” she said bluntly. “We saw what happened in the cave. Was that my husband’s stallion?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Swann,” said Miller. “We’ve brought the animal’s head back for your husband to identify—”
“We rode through your camp a while ago,” Bailey said. “We chased away a pack of wolves that had torn into the bundles of horse meat you left there. I expect they returned as soon as we were out of sight. There wasn’t much to identify. There’ll be less when you get back there.”
Miller stiffened, clenched his fists and his teeth to keep from hurling out a curse word. Before he could respond, Bailey Swann nodded at Will Summers and asked, “Who is this one, just another saddle tramp?”
Summers’ eyes fixed on hers and stayed. He had nothing to hide. He wasn’t going to cower down.
“Will Summers, ma’am,” Summers replied before Miller got the chance to. “I wasn’t with the Belltraes. I was delivering these fillies to your husband—Mr. Swann, that is,” he corrected himself.
“He claims Will Summers is his name, ma’am,” Miller cut in. “Even has some papers here on the horses.” He patted the lapel of his mud-splattered rain slicker. “Says Mr. Swann will vouch for him as soon as we get him there.”
“Oh?” said Bailey. She held a hand out to Miller for the papers as she stared at Summers. “I don’t recall Mr. Swann mentioning the purchase of any bay fillies.”
“That’s what I figured, Miss Bailey,” said Miller, taking out the papers and handed them over to her. “Then we should have hanged all three yesterday when we had the chance—saved ourselves a lot of extra riding.” He glared at Summers with renewed hatred. “Hector, go scout us a tree.”
“Wait!” Summers blurted out to Miller and the Mexican. To Bailey he said quickly, “Take me to your husband, ma’am. He’ll vouch for me. He bought these fillies from me—said they were breeding stock for his stallion.” He looked back and forth among the three other riders staring at him. “Surely he would have told somebody they were coming.”
The three riders continued to stare at him, unmoved.
Bailey Swann had unfolded the paperwork and started reading. She didn’t look up at Summers. “You’re right.He would have,” she said. Then she lifted her eyes to him. “That’s my point exactly. Mr. Swann never mentioned it.”
“How’s that tree coming along, Hector?” Miller said to the Mexican who had stalled for a moment to hear the woman’s reply. Hector turned his horse quickly and rode away along the river’s edge. Summers sat silent, looking into the woman’s cold blue eyes. He saw her fold the paperwork and start to hand it back to Miller.
“We can’t hang you quick enough to suit me,” Endo Clifford said to Summers in a pained voice.
Bailey Swann looked at Clifford, then back at Summers. Detecting the bad blood between the two, she looked back at Miller for an explanation.
“It’s nothing, ma’am,” Miller said, reaching out for the paperwork. “Endo kept boning and dogging him. He gave Endo the boot, in the worst possible place, if you know what I mean—pardon me for saying it.” His face reddened again.
“Yes, I believe I know,” the young woman said. She appeared to consider something. “You know what?” she said, pulling the paperwork back before Miller could take it from her. “Now that I think of it, I do remember my husband mentioning he’d acquired breeding stock for his stallion.”
Miller just stared at her; so did Summers.
“Ma’am . . . ?” said Miller. He gave her a dubious look.
“Yes, it’s true,” she said. “I don’t know how it could have slipped my mind.”
Summers felt a sense of relief come over him. He almost slumped in his saddle. But he stopped himself and watched and waited, not sure he should believe his own ears.
Chapter 6
While the flooded river raged past the wet mud-splattered riders, Summers drew a long, calm breath. He continued to watch the young woman, certain that she was lying, but not about to say so. Anything she said that put some distance between him and a hanging rope, he was all for it. The doubt she saw in Miller’s eyes made her turn to the young men riding with her for support.
“Dallas,” she said to the nearest one, “don’t you remember Mr. Swann telling you last week that there’s a man bringing some bay fillies? I’m certain he did.”
Dallas Tate, a handsome, tough-looking young man around Will Summers’ age, quickly took up the woman’s ruse.
“Yeah, come to think of it, I do remember,” he said. He stopped his horse forward and inspected the fillies with what Summers saw to be sudden and mock interest. Summers pulled the string forward as if to afford the man a better look. He remained quiet, not wanting to stop anything that was starting to go in his favor.
“He said there were four bays coming—high bred, as I recall,” said Tate. He turned in his saddle and looked at another rider. “Lon, is that what you heard?”
“Yep, it is,” said Lonnie Kerns, a young Californian cattle drover with a barbwire scar across his left cheek, his upper lips. “I don’t recall the number, but I remember they’re all bays—”
Clifford listened, boiling with rage, until he couldn’t take any more of it.
“Did he, now?” he blurted out with sarcasm, not believing a word of it. “Then did he also mention this man would be riding a waterlogged dapple gray, wearing muddy boots?”
Bailey and the three riders stared at Clifford.
“So you don’t believe us?” she said coolly.
Clifford sneered. “Not in a pig’s eye—”
“That’s enough out of you, Endo,” Miller said, still seething over Endo’s knife being taken away from him by the Belltraes. He said to the young woman, “Please overlook Endo, Miss Bailey. He’s not himself today.”
“You should teach him to keep his mouth shut,” said Dallas Tate. “I’ll tolerate no rudeness toward Mrs. Swann.”
“Why, you . . . ,” said Clifford. He stepped his horse forward, but Miller grabbed the horse’s bridle, stopping him.
“We’ll be escorting Mr. Summers and his horses to my husband,” the woman cut in. “Where are his guns?” As she spoke she stuck the folded paperwork into her slicker. Summers stepped his horses forward and stopped up close beside the sheriff.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mrs. Swann,” Miller said, reaching around and taking Summers’ rolled-up gun belt, Colt and everything else from his saddlebags and handing them over.
“I always know what I’m doing, Sheriff,” the young woman said firmly.
Summers didn’t put on his gun belt. Instead he draped the belt over his shoulder, pulled out the Colt, checked it, found it loaded, spun the cylinder and slid it back into holster.
“Obliged you kept it dry for me, Sheriff,” he said.
“Anytime I can help,” Miller said in a wry tone.
“What about my rifle?” Summers asked.
“Julio, bring this man his Winchester,” Miller said over his shoulder. To Summers he said, “Mister, you’re a lucky man today.”
Summers straightened in his saddle as he saw his Winchester being passed up to Miller.
“It’s Summers . . . Will Summers,” he allowed himself to say. He took the Winchester Miller held out to him.
“I’ll remember that,” said Miller. He watched Summers back his gray and pull the string along with him. “Mrs. Bailey,” he added, “please tell Mr. Swann that I hope he’s feeling better. Tell him we’ve crossed the Blue River, and we’ll be hanging the Belltraes before the day ends. I’ll be riding out to the ranch to report as soon as we’re done out here.” He gave her a piercing stare. �
��I need to discuss drawing my pay.”
Drawing his pay . . . ? Summers watched and listened.
Ignoring his words, Bailey looked away from Miller and out on the rushing river.
“You’re not fool enough to cross this, are you?” she said.
Miller looked taken aback by her words.
“The Belltraes crossed it. So can we,” he replied in a stubborn clipped tone.
The woman looked at her three riders for an opinion. All three shook their heads slowly.
“Ain’t a way in the world,” Dallas Tate said.
Bailey Swann took a deep breath and smiled cordially.
“Yes, then, I will tell my husband, Sheriff Miller,” she said. “Good luck.” She turned her horse; the three horsemen followed her. So did Summers, him and his horse string flanked by Lonnie Kerns on his right and the third man, Little Ted Ford, on his left.
“If I ever see you again, horse thief, you’re a dead man,” Endo Clifford shouted out at Summers. But Summers rode on at a walk without looking back. Beside him, Little Ted Ford held up an insulting hand gesture back toward Clifford and gave a short laugh.
“Don’t tease that fool, Little Ted,” said Kerns. “Not with your back to him. No matter how little you think of him, he is a back-shooting murderer. Keep that in mind.”
“Ha, he doesn’t scare me,” said Little Ted. As he spoke he lifted his canteen from his saddle horn, uncapped it and handed it to Summers.
“Here, Will Summers,” he said, holding out the canteen. “Looks like you’ve got the dries.”
“Obliged, I do,” Summers said, taking the canteen. He raised the canteen to his lips and drew a long gulp of cool water from it. Then he passed it back to Little Ted, who looked at, shook it and grinned as he capped it.
“I expect there’s nothing like the threat of hanging to give a man the dries,” he said.
“You’re right there,” Summers said, wiping his sleeve across his lips. He raised his voice enough for the woman and Dallas Tate riding in front of him to hear. “I’m grateful the four of you showed up when you did. I’ve never come that close to a hanging rope.”
Without turning in their saddles Dallas Tate and Bailey Swann gave each other a sidelong look.
“How close have you come?” Dallas asked flatly.
The question caught Summers by surprise. He considered it.
“I’ve never had to think about it,” he said. “I’ve never been a horse thief.”
Beside him, Lonnie Kerns gave a thin smile and held his gloved finger and thumb up close together.
“Not even a little bit?” he asked.
Summers looked around at the four before answering.
“No,” he said after a second, “not even a little bit.”
“Pay them no mind, Will Summers,” said the young woman, still without turning in her saddle. “Nobody’s concerned what you do for a living. We’re not your judge and jury—not the way Miller and Clifford think they are.”
Summers let her words sink in.
“But it’s true, ma’am,” he said. “I’m no thief. You saw the paperwork. You saw your husband’s signature.”
Bailey shrugged in her rain slicker.
“Anybody can fake a signature on a handful of paperwork if they’ve a mind to,” she said. Beside her Tate’s hat brim nodded in agreement.
Summers thought about it some more, puzzled by her actions on his behalf only moments earlier.
“If you didn’t believe me, why’d you vouch for me back there?” he asked.
“Because Miller and Clifford are idiots,” she said. “And because nobody riding with the Belltraes would go to all that trouble to steal horses in Mexico.” She added with a half chuckle, “Anyway, my husband is always looking for good breeding stock. I figure it’s a good bet he bought them from you.” She finally turned her head slightly and glanced back at him. “But that doesn’t say much about where you got them, does it?”
Summers fell silent for a moment.
“No, ma’am, I expect it doesn’t,” he said finally. He drew the fillies closer alongside him and rode on, deciding once again that it was time to keep his mouth shut. He was grateful to the woman and her ranch hands for saving him from the sheriff’s posse. He could wait until they reached Ansil Swann’s ranch and let Swann clear everything up.
After a moment of silence, Little Ted said to everyone, “All right. I’ve got a dollar says Miller tries to swim the posse across the river. Any takers?”
“I’ve got two dollars says they’ll drown if he does,” Lonnie Kerns chuckled, “leastwise, everybody but the Mexicans. Those vaqueros can swim a horse to China if they took a notion.”
“Maybe Miller and Clifford will get out there and drown themselves,” Bailey Swann said, staring straight ahead. “That would be the best thing for everybody.”
A strange thing to say. . . . Summers looked curiously at her and Dallas Tate as they rode on.
• • •
In the afternoon the last of the lingering clouds had moved away and the hot Mexican sun had reclaimed its reign in a clear blue sky. As Summers and the other four riders crossed stretches of flatlands, the long-thirsting ground seemed to suck up the remnants of last night’s storm waters. Flooded streams fell back inside cut banks. The horses’ hooves, which had sounded muffled on the damp ground earlier in the day, now clacked on the hardening terrain. Dust had already begun to rise along the trail behind them. A moderate breeze flurried in across the desert hills.
“Enjoy the cool air while it lasts,” Dallas Tate said as the five settled on a campsite and stepped down from their saddles. They led their horses just off the trail into the shade and shelter of rocks. In the west the sun painted the sky purple-red.
After a meal of heated beans from tins, thick-sliced salt pork and flatbread from a trail sack, the five sat around a low fire sipping hot coffee. Summers had eaten like a man starved. The four took note, knowing he’d been a prisoner. When he’d finally set aside his tin plate and relaxed back against his saddle, Bailey looked at the others, then at him.
“So, Will Summers,” she said, “were you there when the Belltraes killed and butchered my husband’s stallion?”
“No, ma’am,” Summers said. “When I got to the mine shafts the Belltraes had done their worst and were gone. I found the man they call Hendrik there dying.” As he spoke he reached inside his trouser pocket and pulled out the horsehair quirt that the posse men had overlooked. “Far as I know, this is all that remains.” He held it out. Little Ted, sitting nearest him, took it and passed it on to Lonnie Kerns. From Kerns to Tate, who examined it for a second and passed it sidelong to Bailey.
The young woman turned the shiny black quirt in her hands and sighed quietly. As she examined it, Tate stood up from beside her and stepped away from the fire to retrieve his saddle lying on the ground a few yards away.
“Such a waste,” she commented almost to herself. “Mr. Swann will take this hard. He loved the stallion.” She nodded toward the four fillies standing at a rope line with the other horses. “He was convinced that with the right mares he could produce some fine racing stock.”
“I know,” said Summers. “He told me as much when he bought the bays from me.” He sipped his coffee.
“I’m afraid seeing these bays is only going to make him feel worse,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry for how this turned out for him,” Summers said, watching her pass the shiny quirt back to Lonnie Kerns in Tate’s absence. Kerns passed it on in turn to Little Ted. “But being a serious horse breeder, I’m sure he’ll find himself a stallion to replace the one he lost.” He took the quirt when Little Ted held it out to him.
“I don’t think so,” said Bailey Swann. “He was so fond of the black stallion, I believe this news will crush him.”
Crush him? Summers gave her a
curious look. The man he’d met at the Denver City horse auction hadn’t impressed him as a man easily crushed, even under these circumstances.
“Ma’am,” he said, “your husband—”
“Please, call me Bailey, at least while we’re on the trail,” she said, interrupting him. “May I call you Will?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Summers. “As I was saying, Bailey—”
“She’s Mrs. Swann to you,” Tate said, stepping in with his saddle and dropping it beside the young woman.
Summers just looked at him, seeing jealousy fueled by white-hot anger flare in his eyes. Tate’s right hand almost made a move to the Colt on his hip. Summers caught the gesture and prepared to make a grab for his own Colt that he’d strapped around his waist earlier in the afternoon.
“Dallas,” Bailey said firmly, “don’t correct Will. I asked him to call me Bailey while we’re on the trail. You weren’t listening.” She sounded as if she was reprimanding him.
“‘Will,’ is it?” said Tate, softening his stare a little as he turned from Summers to the young woman.
“Yes, it is,” Bailey said firmly, with a glare that left room for no more discussion of the matter. She looked back at Summers as Tate stomped away from the fire to the horses. “You were saying, Will?”
Summers set his coffee cup down by his left hand and kept his right hand near his holstered Colt. The other two ranch hands looked at each other knowingly, in silence.
“I was saying,” he continued, “your husband struck me as a hard-fisted businessman—”
“In most cases, yes, he is,” Bailey said, cutting him off. “But breeding racehorses has always been his overriding passion. I regret having to bring him this terrible news.”
“I understand,” Summers said. As he spoke he kept Dallas Tate in his peripheral line of sight, not liking the way things had just gone between them.
“I wish I could tell him about the stallion and have you just take the bays back with you. He wouldn’t even have to know.”
