by Ralph Cotton
Damn it to hell!
He stared back out across the flatland below. He had no idea if the wagon had pulled away or was still sitting there. Without the telescope he couldn’t even look for the wagon tracks. Still, he held his hand above his eyes as a visor and tried to look through the bright sunlight.
Nothing. . . .
He started to lower his hand, but he froze when he heard a voice behind him.
“Keep your hand right there,” the voice commanded. “Raise your other hand too.” The voice paused, then said, “I’m Texas Ranger Boyd Matthews. I’ve searched all over Mexico for you.”
“I—I can’t raise my right hand,” Tate said, staring straight ahead. “My arm’s broken.” He started to turn around. “Anyway, you’ve got the wrong man.”
“Don’t turn around,” the voice demanded. “Oh, I’ve got the right man all right, Dallas Tate. I’m just wondering if I should shoot you now and let you fall, or waste my time taking you back.”
“Don’t shoot, Ranger, please. You’re making a big mistake,” Tate said.
“Oh?” the voice said, as if the Ranger was considering his words.
“You see, I’m not Dallas Tate,” Tate replied quickly. “My name’s Harvey . . . Jonas Harvey.” He instinctively started to turn around again.
“I told you to stand where you are,” the voice barked.
“You are Dallas Tate, and you are wanted for robbery, murder and having intimate congress with a milk goat,” another voice called out sharply.
“What? Jesus, God, no!” said Tate. “A milk goat? I’ve never done nothing like that. I swear to God—!” His words cut short as he heard muffled laughter behind him. “Wait a minute,” he said. Again he started to turn.
“I said don’t turn around,” the first voice warned, “you goat-loving lowlife—”
But this time Tate turned anyway, cutting the man short.
“You sons a’ bitches,” he said, seeing the familiar grinning faces of two Texas gunmen, Rodney Gaines and Gil Rizale. Even as the two laughed at their little joke, they both held their sidearms drawn and aimed at him. Tate took note and held on to his temper. These two were not men to fly off the handle with, especially with a bad gun arm.
“You notice he didn’t deny robbery or murder. It’s just his goat consorting he took offense at,” said the tall, hefty Rizale, his hairless head hidden beneath a wide-brimmed slouch hat. They both let their guns sag in their hands. A long brown duster hung to his bootheels. Tate caught a glimpse of a sawed-off shotgun hanging behind the duster’s open front.
Rodney Gaines chuckled and lowered his big Remington a little more. He stood as tall as Rizale, but lean and gangly. He wore a short embroidered Mexican waistcoat and a tall battered derby. Tate’s telescope stuck up from his waist.
“Did you even know that goat’s name?” he asked Tate. He took the telescope from behind his belt.
“All right, that’s enough,” Tate said. He took the telescope Gaines held out to him. His head throbbed with a whiskey-drug hangover. His temper had stretched as far as he could take it. He saw his nearly empty whiskey bottle hanging in Rizale’s gloved hand.
“I need that last drink something fierce,” he said, stepping forward.
“We figured you would, soon as you woke up,” Rizale said, holding the bottle out to him. “We’ve shown restraint with it.”
Dallas Tate took the bottle, drained it and pitched it away.
“I suppose the opium’s gone?” he said.
“You supposed right on that, son,” said Rizale. “Some things don’t keep.” He holstered a short-barreled Colt. He took off his hat, rubbed his slick head and put the slouch hat back on, looking all around. “The hell you doing out here anyway?”
Tate stretched out the telescope with his left hand, turned away, raised it to his eye and looked out across the flats below.
“Everybody’s got to be somewhere,” he said over his shoulder.
The two gunmen looked at each other.
“Who are you watching out there?” said Gaines.
“Nobody now,” said Tate. “I was watching some drovers and a wagon moving toward the hills there. But they’re gone now.”
“Yeah?” said Rizale. “There was a fire burning when we got here before daylight. They must’ve left it burning and moved out of there early.”
“Damn it,” said Tate, lowering the telescope, closing it with his left hand, his right arm hanging down at his side. He paused, then asked, “What are you two doing out here?”
“Headed for Dark Horses,” said Rizale. “Thomas Finnity hired us by telegram over a week ago. Told us to go there and help Dad Crayley take possession of some mines and whatnot.”
“Yeah, I’m going to work for Dad too, soon as I finish up some business and get my hand working again,” said Dallas.
“What’s wrong with your gun hand?” Gaines asked.
“It’s not so much my hand as my arm,” said Tate. “Some bastard jumped me from behind the other day, broke my arm up high—hurts something awful.”
“Imagine a fellow does something like that,” said Gaines, not believing him. “He might travel the frontier, jump folks from behind, break their arm and move to the next. . . .”
“Let me look at it,” said Rizale, stepping forward.
“Huh-uh,” said Tate, taking a step back, “I’d sooner you didn’t.”
“I’d sooner I did,” Rizale insisted. He took another step forward; Tate stepped back, closer to the rock shelf’s edge.
“I said no,” said Tate. His left hand crossed over clumsily to the Colt holstered on his right hip. But he wasn’t quick enough. Gaines stepped in and grabbed the gun up from its holster. Both he and Rizale stepped forward.
“He’s going to look at it,” Gaines told Tate. “You just as well give it up, unless you can fly.”
“Damn it to hell, stay back!” Tate shouted as the two sprang upon him and took him to the ground.
The pain in Tate’s arm caused him to peal out a scream as Gaines lay atop him, pinning him down, and Rizale grabbed his right arm by the wrist.
“Please, for God sakes!” shouted Tate.
Rizale’s big fingers felt up and down his arm and found no broken bone.
“Just like I thought,” he said, “it’s not broke. I had a cousin this used to happen to.”
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you both,” Tate shouted, seeing that begging got him nowhere.
“Hold him good, Rod,” said Rizale. He stood, stretching Tate’s arm up with him, and clamped a boot on Tate’s chest up under his armpit. Tate screamed loud again. “This is going hurt bad,” said Rizale. “But you’ll be glad.”
“What the hell does that mean—?” screamed Tate. But his words turned into a louder scream as the big gunman held him in place with his boot and gave a long pull on Tate’s wrist.
Through his scream, Tate heard, and felt, a pop inside his shoulder joint. Rizale turned his wrist loose and took his boot off Tate’s chest, stepping back with a grin.
“How’s that, son?” he said down to Tate, whose scream had turned into a whimper. “I can do it again,” he offered.
Tate fell silent, but found himself able to work his arm without the blinding pain he’d had only seconds earlier.
“Oh my,” he said in amazement, “it’s gone. I can move it! Jesus, Gil, what did you do?” He was nearly tearful in his sudden relief.
Rizale grinned. He reached down and pulled Gaines to his feet. The two of them took Tate’s left hand and pulled him to his feet.
“The fellow jerked it out of the socket,” Rizale said. “I jerked it back in, like I used to do to my cousin.”
Tate let out a breath, rounding his shoulder. He couldn’t believe it. The arm was a little stiff, still a little sore, but otherwise the pain was gone.
&n
bsp; “Are we good here, amigo?” Gaines asked, holding up Tate’s Colt in his hand.
“Yeah,” Tate said, still rounding his shoulder. “I’m real sorry about all the threats. I didn’t mean none of it.”
“I know it,” said Gaines, shoving the Colt down into Tate’s holster. “If we thought you meant it, guess what we would have done instead of pulling your arm into its socket.”
“I know,” said Tate, cooled out now, glad to have his shoulder fixed. “Can I boil you some coffee?” he asked.
The two looked at each other.
“Can’t see why not,” Rizale said. He took off his hat and slapped it against his leg; dust billowed. “Need something to cut this Mexican ground powder.”
Chapter 14
Over coffee, Dallas Tate told the two gunmen what had happened between him and Will Summers. He told them about how he and Bailey Swann had been slipping around behind Ansil’s back. He knew that the old man was ill and had been using a wheelchair. He didn’t realize that Swann would not have known what was going on between him and his young wife if he’d been staring straight at them.
“One sniff of that horse trader,” he said bitterly, “and she threw me over for him. I’d have done anything for her. I’d have stuck a gun in the old man’s mouth and pulled the trigger, if she’d asked me to do it.” He swirled his coffee around in his cup and finished it in one gulp. “I thought about doing it anyway. Then everything she had would have been mine.”
Rizale and Gaines looked at each other.
“That’s a hell of a story,” Rizale said when Tate was finished. He stood up and slung grinds from his empty coffee cup. “But then you always were a man who had a knack for drawing close to womenfolk.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Tate asked, staring up at him.
“Nothing to take offense at,” Rizale said. “It’s just an observation.” He grinned.
“It’s not like he’s accusing you of having congress with a milk goat,” Gaines put in. “I’ve never seen the Swann woman, but I hear she’s a looker.”
“She’s all of it,” Tate said, staring intently at his empty tin coffee cup. “Sometimes I felt like she was only using me. But if she was, it was the best using I ever had.” He paused, felt them staring at him. “Damn that horse trader to hell,” he murmured.
“All right, then,” said Gaines, “we’ll be riding on to Dark Horses, get ready for this job with Dad Crayley.” He stood up. “Sure you won’t ride with us?” He picked at the seat of his trousers.
“No,” said Tate, “I’ll ride in later.” He sat rounding his shoulder a little, getting it back in shape. “I’ve got something to take care of first.”
“You’re going off after that woman and the horse trader, aren’t you?” said Rizale. He grinned. “I’d hate to think fixing that shoulder has set you off on a cruel path of violence.” He and Gaines both laughed at his little joke.
Tate’s face reddened a little, but he gave a thin, halfhearted smile.
“No, I’m done with her and the horse trader,” he said, lying, eager to get rid of them. “I’ve just got some stuff that needs doing.”
“Not that milk goat? Please,” said Rizale, with his wide-faced grin, still sticking it to Tate.
“No, not the goat,” said Tate, without acknowledging the humor of it.
“Well, we never ask a man’s personal business,” said Gaines, stretching a little. “I expect we’ll see you soon in Dark Horses.”
“I expect so,” said Tate, standing, slinging grinds from his empty cup. He scraped out the small fire with the side of his boot.
In moments the three were mounted and riding away. They guided their horses to a place where the trail forked, one trail leading off toward Dark Horses, the other leading down toward the stretch of sand flats below. Gaines and Rizale gave a toss of their hands to Tate.
“Don’t do nothing crude in public,” said Rizale.
“You neither,” said Tate, turning his horse, touching his fingertips to his hat brim.
The two rode up the trail a few feet, out of sight around a stand of rock and pine. But then they stopped, eased their horses out a few inches and watched Dallas Tate ride down away from them.
“Think he believes we’re just getting here?” Gaines asked in a lowered voice, even though Tate was out of listening range.
“Yeah, he does,” said Rizale. “Why wouldn’t he? He never saw us in town. If he had, he’d have been too drunk and hurting too bad to remember.” He shook his big head. “I hate ever helping anybody. But I couldn’t stand seeing the shape he was in. I had to fix his shoulder or shoot him in the head.”
“We’re going to stick with him, then?” Gaines asked, crossing his wrists on his saddle horn, getting comfortable.
“Yep, for a while, see what he’s up to,” said Rizale. “I don’t want to tell Dad he shook us off his trail.”
“Me neither,” said Gaines, the two of them staring at Tate as he faded in a rise of dust. “He’s a squirrel, ain’t he?”
“Yep, a straight-up squirrel,” said Rizale in reflection. “He’s woman-struck to the bone.” He sighed heavily, saying under his breath, “Likes the womenfolk awfully.”
Gaines looked at him narrowly.
“So?” he said. “Don’t we all?”
“Not the way he does,” said Rizale. “He’s ate up by them. Don’t know what to do if one ain’t leading him around by his crotch. That’s why he didn’t join Dad Crayley right away.”
“Yeah, he should have jumped at the chance to ride for Dad when Dad invited him,” Gaines said. “What kind of gunman turns down Dad Crayley?”
“A squirrel,” Rizale restated. “I figure Dad knows it, and that’s why he wants us following him—thinks he’s up to something. And I expect he is too. Don’t forget he was ramrod for Swann, before the woman dropped him, that is.”
“Figure that’s why the Swann woman dropped him for the horse trader?” Gaines said. “Saw he’s a squirrel, couldn’t stand it no longer?”
“We don’t know that she really did drop him for some horse trader,” said Rizale, “just that she dropped him. Might be the horse trader part was all in his mind. Might be she got tired of his nose poking her in the behind every time she stopped too fast.”
Gaines chuckled and nodded.
“He’s wanting onto those wagon tracks real bad, ain’t he?” he said, nodding in Tate’s direction.
“Oh, son,” said Rizale, “so bad it’s torturing his guts.”
“How you want to follow?” Gaines asked.
“Stay up here and skirt around behind him on this hill line,” said Rizale. “We’ll drop down and get on the other hill trail when he’s off the flats.”
The two turned their horses as one and rode out around a high, steep ledge, out of Tate’s sight.
“Damn squirrel,” Gaines said under his breath.
• • •
Just before noon, Summers drove the wagonload of furniture off the high trail onto a flat spot of ground in front of a row of closed and rock-sealed mine shafts. The night before, he’d told Lonnie and Little Ted where they were headed, but so far he hadn’t told them why. As soon as he stopped the wagon out in front of the mine shaft Bailey Swann had pointed out to him, he set the wagon brake and stepped from the seat. As he gave Bailey a hand down from her seat, Ted and Lonnie drew their horses up beside him.
“All right, men,” Summers said, “let’s get the wagon unloaded here and clear the rocks away from the mine opening.” He nodded at the correct mine.
The two ranch hands nodded at each other, then looked back at Summers.
“We’ve got a sneaking suspicion why we’re here,” Little Ted said, stepping down from his saddle. Beside him Lonnie stepped down holding the lead rope to Summers’ dapple gray and the four bay fillies.
“
I knew the two of you would likely figure it out by the time we got here,” Summers said. “Tell me what you come up with.” He looked at Little Ted.
Little Ted gave a sly grin back and forth between Summers and Lonnie.
“You figure on opening one of the mines and hiding the hacienda furnishings and valuables there until the collectors give up and leave Dark Horses,” he said.
“You couldn’t be more wrong, fellow,” Summers said. He nodded at the rocks piled thick against the front of the mine shaft. “We’re unloading the furniture so we can hide something beneath it.” He turned to Bailey Swann. “They work for you, ma’am,” he said. “You want to tell them?”
“Lonnie, Ted,” said Bailey, turning to them. “My husband, Ansil, had a lot of ore smelted into gold over the last two years. He had it placed in the mine shaft here for safekeeping—”
“Over two years?” said Lonnie, interrupting her. “How much gold are we talking about here?”
“A lot,” Bailey said. “I don’t know exactly how much, but Ansil assured me it would be enough to take care of him and me for the rest of our lives, in spite of what we’ve lost in the business world.” She looked at each of the ranch hands in turn. “Help us get it to Don Manuel’s. I promise you will both be well paid for you efforts.”
The two looked at Summers, who nodded toward the mine shaft. “Let’s get the mine open and see what we’ve got,” he said.
Little Ted grinned and leveled his hat on his head and walked toward the rock-sealed mine.
“That’s what I say,” he replied, excited, rolling up his shirtsleeves.
Summers took the lead rope from Lonnie and Lonnie caught up with Little Ted. As the two ranch hands walked toward the sealed shaft, Summers led the five horses to the side and hitched them to a long wooden hitch rail. When he walked to the shaft, Lonnie and Little Ted were already carrying large stones away from the front of the mine shaft entrance and piling them along the face of the hillside.
The shafts of the commercial mines had been cut almost eight feet high and heavily shored up with local cut pine timbers over a foot thick. By the end of an hour’s worth of heavy lifting and toting, the three had only cleared away four feet of the mine shaft, finding the sealing rocks to be well stacked, almost interlocked into place. Bailey Swann, determined to do her part, picked up any smaller rocks as they fell from within the loosening pile and carried them outside the shaft. When she wasn’t helping with moving the rocks, she kept busy unloading less heavier items from the wagon.
