Dark Horses

by Ralph Cotton

  Chapter 9

  At the front door, Summers waited, listening, until the sound of the four horses’ hooves stopped a few yards away from the porch and the big, empty wagon rattled to creaking halt. Still he waited, shotgun in hand, his free hand on the doorknob, listening to the metallic sound of a rifle levering a round up into its chamber. A second passed, and then he heard a strong voice call out from the front yard.

  “You in there,” the voice shouted. “We saw you. Come on out. There’s nothing you can do to stop us doing our job.”

  Summers opened the front door slowly and stepped out onto the front porch, the shotgun down at his side. He glanced at the far end of the porch, but he didn’t see either Lonnie Kerns or Little Ted.

  How long could it take them to tie their horses?

  Seeing him look for the two ranch hands, the man who had spoken gave a dark chuckle.

  “Looks like your two pals went off to find themselves a shady spot,” he said. The other three horsemen and the wagon driver gave the same dark chuckle.

  Summers watched the lead horseman step his big chestnut forward. He was the only man not wearing a wide-brimmed hat. This one wore a black derby sitting at a rakish cock above his left eye. Instead of a black string tie, this man wore a wide black necktie with silver stripes across it—the same black suit, the same tan duster, Summers noted.

  “Where’s Swann? Where’s his woman?” the man asked in a more somber tone. “We’ve come to gather furniture, household goods and the four bays we heard about. We’ll be taking them back to Dark Horses with us.” He sounded cocksure of himself.

  Where had he heard about the bays? Summers asked himself. Dallas Tate, he realized.

  He raised the shotgun and stared at them, his feet planted shoulder width apart. The horsemen looked him up and down.

  “So, that’s how it’s going to be, huh, hombre?” the man said, emphasizing the word hombre. He looked all around. “You’d be making a bad mistake thinking we won’t chop you down right where you stand.”

  Summers cocked both hammers.

  “You’d be making a mistake not holding that horse from taking another step,” he replied.

  The sound of the shotgun cocking caused the horseman to tighten the chestnut’s rein. The horse stopped in its tracks.

  “Hombre, this is Mexico,” the horseman said. “We don’t need a court order to take what’s owed to us. These furnishings and those horses belong to Finnity and Baines now. We’re taking them.”

  “I didn’t ask you for a court order,” Summers said flatly, making his intentions clear. “Turn your wagon and ride away. That’s the last I’ll say on the matter.”

  The horseman gave a short chuckle of disbelief.

  “Case you haven’t noticed, hombre, there’re four of us, five counting Tubbs.” He gave a short nod toward the man driving the empty wagon. The man stood up with a rifle he raised from beside his wagon seat.

  Summers stood staring, having spoken his piece. But from the left corner of the hacienda came Little Ted’s voice.

  “Case you haven’t noticed, hombre, there’re six of us, counting the two at the upstairs gun ports,” said Little Ted, in a mocking tone.

  Standing on the porch, Summers saw the riders’ eyes turn to the second-floor row of shuttered windows above him. Summers had no idea who might have been at the gun ports up there. But what Little Ted said was working.

  The leader looked back at Summers. A stiff smile showed beneath a pencil-thin mustache. But Summers could see through the smile. There was fear in the man’s eyes.

  “Well, well,” he said, keeping his voice confident, calm. “We seem to have a Mexican standoff, in Mexico of all places.” As he spoke, Summers kept watch on the rifle in his hands. He noted the man pulled his horse sideways to him, the rifle barrel in his direction. “Maybe this is a good time for me to explain to you why you shouldn’t start trouble with me and these gentlemen behind me—”

  Summers saw the man’s thumb go over the rifle hammer as if to cock it. He didn’t hesitate. The shotgun roared in his hands.

  The leader did not flip backward from his saddle with the impact of the blast as Summers had expected.

  Weak load, he told himself quickly. He watched the man wobble in his saddle, his face and chest covered with blood, his shirt and necktie shredded. His buckshot-riddled bowler hat spun away in the air.

  “Good God!” one of the horsemen shouted.

  The bloody leader managed to climb shakily down his horse’s side, the reins slipping from his hand. He fell onto his knees. His frightened horse, suddenly given free rein, nickered loud and spun and bolted away at a full run. The man tittered on his knees and pitched facedown into the dirt. Summers swung the shotgun at another horseman whose horse had also spooked a little at the sound of the shotgun blast. But instead of swinging his rifle up, the man balanced it across his lap and threw his empty hands chest high.

  “Hold it!” he shouted at Summers and the two ranch hands. “Don’t shoot!” But his request came too late. Both Little Ted and Kerns saw the wagon driver swing his shotgun into play and fired as one from both corners of the hacienda. The driver fell back into the empty wagon bed. The other two riders grabbed the wagon horses and held them in check. “This wasn’t supposed to turn into a bloodbath!” the man continued. “We’ve got a right to come here and take possession! Our company is owed money! We need to talk about this, for God sakes!”

  Summers noted that the man kept his hand away from his rifle hammer as he spoke. The three remaining horsemen appeared stunned at how Summers had blasted the lead man from his saddle without hesitation.

  Kerns and Little Ted both held their fire. Summers took a step forward on the porch. The three horsemen appeared to be frozen in place, their hands in full view. They didn’t want a fight. They were used to getting their way; they hadn’t expected this.

  Interesting, Summers thought.

  “I warned you that I had no more to say on the matter,” he said in a cool, level tone. In the dirt, the leader groaned and pushed himself up with his palms.

  “You’ll . . . pay for this,” he growled at Summers, blood running down his face.

  Summers only stared. He’d brought the fillies here for breeding stock. He wasn’t about to see them led away by a group of debt collectors—men whose only course of law was to apply force and fear in equal measure.

  “Can we get him up from there?” a horseman asked, gesturing down at Darren Crayley.

  Summers gave his approval with a jerk of the smoking shotgun barrel.

  “Boot your rifles first,” he said. Then he watched as two riders slipped their rifles into their saddle boots, stepped down and walked to the man who was struggling in the dirt.

  The two pulled him to the feet. He staggered in place between them and wiped blood from his eyes. Summers saw buckshot holes bleeding on his forehead, his chin, down the right side of his chest. His right ear, which looked partly severed, hung down the side of his head. One man stooped and picked up his chewed-up bowler hat and held it.

  “I’ll ki-kill you for this,” the wounded man said. “As sure as there’s . . . a devil . . . in hell, I’ll kill you—”

  “Keep it up,” warned Summers, “I’ll shoot you again.” He half raised the shotgun to his shoulder.

  “You men, rush him,” Crayley commanded the two holding him up. But the two horsemen shook him by his shoulders.

  “Shut up, Darren,” said one. “You heard the man. He’s already shot you once. He ain’t bluffing.”

  “His shotgun loads . . . are low powdered. They have no strength,” the man, Darren Crayley, said. “Look at me. I’d be dead if they did. Now rush him, damn it!”

  “Step away from him,” Summers said calmly, leveling the shotgun, taking tighter aim at the bloody man. “We’ll go again.”

  “Please, mister
, no,” one man said, even as he took a step away from Crayley and held him at arm’s length. “He don’t know what he’s saying. Let us take him, get him looked after. We were just doing our jobs here.”

  “So are we,” Little Ted called out, he and Kerns stepping out from the corners and moving slowly along the front of the porch. The two men looked at the rifles pointed at them, then glanced up warily at the second-floor gun ports.

  “Tubbs is bleeding bad over here,” the third man called out from the wagon. Groans of pain rose from the wagon bed.

  “Jesus,” said one of the two horsemen. He looked at Summers and said, “Can we take them both out of here, before they both bleed to death? Call this whole thing quits?”

  “Get them out of here,” Summers said, lowering the double-barreled shotgun an inch. This wasn’t what these four had expected. Watch out next time, he thought to himself.

  “Obliged, mister,” said the same man. “What about Crayley’s horse?”

  Summers stared at him, narrow-eyed.

  “Get it on your way out,” he said.

  Crayley started to complain, but both men shook him, warning him to keep his mouth shut. They looped Crayley’s arm over their shoulders.

  “You can ride in the wagon bed with Tubbs,” one of them said, jerking a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket and giving it to Crayley to hold to his bloody face.

  “Lie there beside stinking Tubbs . . . all the way to Dark Horses?” asked Crayley. “Huh-uh, I’m taking my horse.” He struggled against the two as they turned and motioned for the third rider to lead the wagon forward toward them.

  “Don’t push it, Darren,” one said. “You’re lucky we’re getting you out of here alive.”

  • • •

  Summers and the two ranch hands watched as the wagon rolled out of sight across the low rise, the three horsemen flanking it. One of the horsemen rode over and gathered the loose frightened horse and brought it back to the wagon as the group moved on. Darren Crayley remained in the wagon with Tubbs.

  “Man oh man!” Little Ted said to Summers, the three of them standing out front on the hacienda, “You shot the hell out of Crayley. He’ll never look the same. We make up a powerful force, us three!”

  Summers just looked at Little Ted.

  “He made a move for his rifle,” Summers replied. “If I didn’t stop him then, when would I?”

  “I agree,” said Little Ted, excited. “I just wasn’t expecting it is all. They must be so used to getting their way, I don’t think they knew what hit them.”

  “They’ll be back, though,” said Kerns, “now that they know about the four bays. Those fillies are too fine for them to pass up.” He gazed out at the empty low rise. “Next time they’ll know what to expect. They’ll bring more guns with them.”

  Little Ted looked at Summers.

  “Are you going to stick around now, stand with us when they show up again?” he said.

  Summers didn’t answer.

  “Because if you don’t, they’re going to be harder to stop next time,” Little Ted added. “We’ll have gotten them riled up for nothing.”

  “Leave him alone, Little Ted,” said Kerns. “We’re the ones who shot the wagon driver. Summers has to do what suits him. No need in you pressing him on it.”

  They both looked at Summers for a reply.

  Before he could answer, Bailey Swann and Rena both stepped out onto the porch, each with a rifle in her hands.

  “Leave Will alone, boys,” said Bailey. “He brought Mr. Swann’s bays here the way he agreed to do. He didn’t ask for all the trouble that’s found him. I’m certain he has business obligations across the border that need attending to.”

  Summers didn’t respond. Instead he nodded at the rifles in the women’s hands.

  “That was you two up there at the gun ports?” he asked, looking back and forth between them.

  Bailey gave a thin smile.

  “Yes, it was,” she said, “but the collectors didn’t know that. Besides, our bullets would have done just as much damage as anyone else’s.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Summers said respectfully, “I realize that.” He paused in thought, then asked, “Who’s the boss behind these collectors?”

  Bailey and Rena looked to Kerns.

  “That would be Evert Crayley,” said Kerns. “He’s Darren Crayley’s own pa, but all the men call him Dad. He’s the top security man for Finnity and Baines. He’s got himself an office set up in the Dark Horses Hotel while they sort through taking Swann’s holdings.”

  “Dad Crayley used to be a gunman for Mr. Swann’s railroad,” said Little Ted. “Now he makes his living taking back everything Ansil Swann worked for all his life.”

  “Hell of a way to make a living,” said Lonnie Kerns. He spat in disgust.

  Bailey turned to the two ranch hands and said, “Lonnie, you and Ted go fetch us some beef for dinner. We could all use a good meal, after today’s activities.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kerns said, touching his fingertips to his hat brim. “Come on, Little Ted.”

  “After dinner, I’m hoping you’ll show me that flip you did on Dallas Tate,” Little Ted said to Summers.

  “We’ll see,” said Summers. He stood beside Bailey and watched as the two ranch hands walked away.

  “The fact is, Evert Crayley used to be among my husband’s closest friends,” Bailey Swann said to Summers. “Yet he was the first one to jump over to the side of Finnity and Baines when Ansil’s business interests began to falter.”

  “That’s a shame, ma’am,” said Summers. “I hope everything works out for you and your husband.”

  “It would mean a lot to me, personally, if you stayed here for a while, Will,” she said quietly, just between the two of them. She put a hand on his forearm as she spoke. She gave a glance to Rena on the porch. Rena turned and walked back inside the hacienda and closed the door behind herself.

  Summers took note of the two women’s silent exchange. He also took note of Bailey Swann’s hand on his arm, how close she now stood to him.

  “With Dallas Tate gone, I have no one to take charge of things here.” She paused, then added, “I’m in need of a strong man who isn’t afraid of these collectors—who will tell Lonnie and Little Ted what to do when these collectors return.”

  A gunman, a top gunman. . . . That was what she was asking him to be, he told himself.

  “Ma’am, I’m a horse trader,” he said. “I know how to use a gun, but I’m no gunman, and I’m afraid a gunman is what you’re looking for.”

  “I need a man who can take charge,” she said. “A man who can stand up to these collectors the way you just did.”

  “Your two ranch hands did just as much as I did—” Will said before she cut him short.

  “They had to be led to do it,” she said. “Don’t be so modest, Will. They respect you. They see you’re a leader. They’ll follow your orders.”

  Will shook his head slowly.

  “Ma’am, I don’t want to cause you to have any false hope,” he said. “I believe these men will run you and your husband over sooner or later. Without any influence with the Mexican government, or the money it takes to hire guns, it’s just a matter of time.”

  “I know, Will,” Bailey said, letting her hand drop from his a forearm. “I don’t have to be reminded.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry,” Will said. “Earlier, you said your husband had a plan?”

  “Yes,” Bailey said. She looked all around, then said, “Later tonight, when we can speak more freely, I want to tell you everything.”

  Summers looked off toward the trail as if anxious to get under way.

  “Please,” Bailey said. “It’ll be getting dark soon. We’ve got plenty of room in the bunkhouse. Stay the night with us. We’ll send you off after a good breakfast in the morning.”<
br />
  Summers nodded. He had to admit he was curious what sort of plan she had in mind to fend off the debt collectors and save her and her husband’s holdings.

  “A good dinner, a hot breakfast . . . ,” he said, offering a thin smile. “I’d be a fool to turn that down.”

  Chapter 10

  After a dinner prepared in the outdoor cocina by Rena and her father, served beneath the paling afternoon sky, Summers sat on the porch swing sipping from a hot coffee mug, his hat lying on the swing beside him. A red sun melted slowly on the western sky. Ansil Swann sat in his wheelchair as still and silent as a corpse, with a shawl hiked on his shoulders and covering his lap against the cool evening air.

  Summers watched Little Ted gallop his horse toward the house from a watch point out above the main trail, where Lonnie Kerns had relieved him only moments earlier. Ted swung down from his saddle and reined his horse at a hitch ring.

  “All right, Will Summers,” he said as he took off his hat and hung it over his saddle horn, “you said you’d teach me. Now let’s get to it before we run out of light.” He grinned and stretched his arms as if loosening up.

  Seated in a swing beside her husband’s wheelchair, Bailey sighed under her breath. She watched Summers put his coffee cup down, stand and step off the front porch in the fading light. He slipped a leather trail glove from behind his gun belt and pulled it on.

  “I can teach you how to do it in less than two minutes, Ted,” he said. “But you might have to practice it awhile until it becomes second nature to you. Fair enough?” He stopped and stood three feet from Little Ted, facing him.

  “Fair enough,” said Little Ted. “I’m a fast learner when it suits me.” He stood facing Summers, who towered a head above him.

  “Unload your six-shooter,” Summers said, nodding at the Colt holstered on Little Ted’s hip.

  Ted grinned and cocked his head a little to one side.

  “Why?” he said. “Dallas’ Colt was loaded when you took it from him.”

  “That’s right,” said Summers, “but yours won’t be. Not if you want me to show you.”