“I’ll be damned,” said Hines. And then, considering what had just been discussed, he suddenly blushed and stammered a little. “I mean, not really . . . That’s not what anybody would want, I just meant . . . Wow. That’s quite a story.”
“Yeah, it is. Now,” said Fred, with an oddly eager look on his face, “I got one more question that might make it even more meaningful . . .”
* * *
Half an hour later, Fred was conferring with Peter and Vern Macy in the office area of the jail building. He’d just finished telling them about the discovery of Merlin Sweeney’s bloodstained shirt and Maudie’s account of how Sweeney had a habit of marking his apparel with signs of the cross.
The brothers had listened attentively and now Fred was anxious for their response. “Well?” he prompted.
Peter and Vern exchanged looks. Then Vern said, “It all seems to fit, Fred. There’s no denying that. The footprint in the alley with the cross pattern in its heel we’ve been wondering about for the past couple days . . . And now the bloody shirt with more cross symbols sewed in, combined with what Maudie was able to tell you . . . It all seems to point to this Merlin Sweeney as the one who beat the snot out of Saul Norton the other night.”
“In addition to the crosses sewn in his clothing,” spoke up Peter, “Maudie was sure Sweeney also had that pattern on the heel of his shoe?”
Fred gave a firm nod of his head. “Yup. He showed it to her that night when they first got to talking about it. He even made a kind of a joke about how he was representing his faith in the Lord from head to foot.”
“But then why would he, especially being a religious man and all, beat the hell out of Norton like that?” asked Peter. “Did they have some kind of argument or something?”
“Not that anybody seems to know about,” said Fred. “Not as far as Maudie knew, and neither did Mike Bullock when we asked him. Nor did Norton himself mention anything when the marshal and me questioned him right after the beating about who might have had it in for him.”
Vern pulled a long, thoughtful face. “So if we’re right, if it was this Merlin who attacked Norton—and every sign indicates so—then it looks like he’s the only one who can explain why.”
“I’ve got another ‘why,’” said Peter. “Why did Larkin call attention to the shirt? What made him think it was so important?”
“I’d say simply because he found it there in the storeroom after he moved in and recognized the stains on it as blood,” said Fred. “That’s something he can answer when the marshal brings him in. But that don’t mean he’ll have any idea as to what Merlin’s motive was.”
“Takes us right back to Merlin as the only one who can tell us that,” said Vern.
The three of them went quiet for a minute.
Until Fred spoke again. “Okay, I’ll say what we’re all thinking. One of us needs to go after Merlin so we can get some answers out of him.”
“The only thing wrong with that,” Vern said, “is that I don’t think the marshal would like it very much if he comes back and finds one of us gone off on the search. He stressed pretty hard about us sticking together while he was away, on account of the trouble brewing with those Rocking W gunnies and all.”
“It might take days for that range war trouble to boil to a head. And it might take days for Marshal Hatfield to get back with Larkin,” Fred pointed out. “In the meantime, the answer to what caused Merlin to go after Norton goes begging. For all we know, maybe that accordion player didn’t head up into the gold fields after all. He might be hanging around somewhere, planning something else. We figured at one time that Norton’s beating and the potshot taken at Jackson Emory out by the butte were possibly tied together, remember . . . ? Everything considered, I don’t think we should wait to act.”
CHAPTER 43
Around the forkful of bacon and eggs he’d just shoved into his mouth, Charley Drake said, “You mean this local law dog is actually a wanted outlaw down in Texas?”
Rance Brannigan nodded, a cup of steaming coffee raised partway to his wryly-grinning mouth. “That’s exactly what I mean. Not only wanted, but wanted bad enough to have a big, juicy reward waitin’ for whoever brings him in—dead or alive.”
“That’s the doggonedest thing I ever heard,” marveled Wilbur Nixon. “A law dog with a price on his head.”
“Him and his kind all ought to have a bounty on their otherwise worthless hides,” snarled Drake venomously. “They pin on a badge and think it gives ’em the almighty right to stick their noses in other folks’ business. It’s about damn time one of ’em had somebody pokin’ back into his.”
“And that’s exactly what we’re gonna do when it comes to this so-called Hatfield,” said Brannigan, his wry grin turning wolfish. “But we got to play it smart and go about it just right. We do this job for Wardell here and collect a nice fat fee for that, then we haul the marshal’s sorry ass back to Texas for the even sweeter payoff that’ll be waitin’ there. All told, boys, it’ll set us up in money and whores and easy livin’ for a long time.”
This conversation was taking place in the grub shack at the Rocking W ranch headquarters. The other wranglers and ranch hands had finished eating a bit earlier, then drifted on out to commence their morning chores. The three hardcases had the place to themselves except for a wiry old cook who’d loaded their plates and now was cussing to himself as he clanged pots and pans back in the kitchen area. Still, due to long-established habits of mistrust and caution, the trio was holding their voices to low, conspiratorial tones.
After mentally gnawing on it through much of the night, at first light Brannigan had finally revealed to his two cohorts the situation regarding the marshal of Rattlesnake Wells. Even at that, however, he only doled out the bare minimum of what they needed to know. Enough to hook their interest and make sure they were drawn into it with him, but not tipping his hand on every detail.
“After hashin’ things out with Wardell last night,” he continued now, “I think I got the picture of what he wants done here and I’ve even got a plan roughed out for how we can go about it. Hell, it shouldn’t take more than a couple, three days. The key will be to pick out a handful of the right hombres from the crew of wranglers already on hand. If I got him spied right, Smoky Barnett, the ramrod, is the type we want right off. We get him, he’ll be valuable for sortin’ out the others. Once we’ve put together what we want, they’ll not only play a part in takin’ care of Wardell’s cattle-rustlin’ beaner neighbor, but they’ll also back us when I call out that phony, two-faced marshal.”
“You make it sound like we’re stagin’ some kind of military maneuver,” said Drake.
Brannigan looked smug. “Why not? I always wanted to be a general. Remember that little uprising down in Mexico we hired into that time? I damn near got to be a general down there—would’ve been, too, if that ragtag so-called army we hooked up with hadn’t all lost their balls when the goin’ got tough.”
“Yeah, I remember that Mexican foul-up,” Drake said sourly. “We damn near ended up in front of a firing squad. We barely got away with the skin still on our asses, and we never got paid but a fraction of what we signed on for.”
“Ah, but it wasn’t all bad. Not in the beginning,” said Nixon, the corners of his mouth lifting in a vaguely dreamy smile. “Remember all those plump, brown-skinned señoritas who welcomed us with such willing open arms when we first showed up to fight on their side?”
“You got a mighty soft way of looking back on things, Wilbur,” said Drake. Then, his sourness turning bitter, he added, “If you recall, about five seconds after the Federales sent us fleein’ for our lives, those same señoritas were willingly opening their arms, thighs, and everything else to the very scum they supposedly hated so much in the beginning.”
“That may be true, compadre,” allowed Nixon, his smile remaining in place. “But it still don’t take away the memory of how fine they treated us before that. And hell, far as what they did after, all they w
ere doin’ was findin’ a way to survive. You can’t hardly blame ’em for that.”
“The hell I can’t,” muttered Drake.
“Never mind that kind of negative talk,” said Brannigan testily. “That business is over and done. The thing to concentrate on now is what’s before us here. The kind of money I’m talkin’ about makin’ off this, combined, will have more gals for you to dally with than you can shake a stick at, Wilbur. And the kind you like, too, Drake—the kind who’ll let you rough ’em up and not raise a fuss about it. All that and plenty more can be ours . . . long as we do like I say and concentrate on gettin’ these jobs done and done smart.”
“Well, a-course, Rance,” said Wilbur. “You take the lead, like always, and me and Drake will fall in line.”
“When and how do we start?” Drake wanted to know.
Brannigan took a pull of his coffee, lowered it. “Soon as we’re done eatin’, we’ll be takin’ a ride out with Barnett. I want to see the lay of the land, especially where Wardell’s property borders on that of this Mexican neighbor Wardell hates so much. I’ll want a peek on the Mexican’s side, too, and I’ll want to see who’s got cattle scattered anywhere close to the line.”
Wilbur cocked an eyebrow. “Do I smell the drift of some beefsteaks still hoofin’ around on four legs maybe mysteriously showin’ up where they ain’t supposed to belong?”
“Could be.”
“Aw, shit. I had a hunch we’d end up herdin’ cattle before we got out of here,” grumbled Drake. “I suppose it’ll be in the middle of the damn night, too, won’t it?”
“Could be,” Brannigan said again.
“A little cowboyin’ I can handle okay,” said Wilbur indifferently. Then, frowning deeply, he added, “But there’s something else I been worryin’ around in my head that’s a site more bothersome.”
“What’s that?” Brannigan asked.
“This outlaw marshal we’re gonna be takin’ back to Texas for the big reward . . . Well, it’s a mighty long stretch from here to Texas. Tryin’ to take him all that way alive would present a whole lot of chances for him to be a problem. On the other hand, haulin’ his dead body all that way would mean time for him to turn powerful ripe.” Wilbur’s face scrunched up unpleasantly at the mere thought. “I don’t know if my tricky stomach could handle that so good.”
Brannigan stared at him for a long moment, then wagged his head as if in amazement. “Wilbur, you think of the damnedest things, you know that?”
“I can’t help it. I’m just sayin’ . . .”
“Hell, there’s a simple answer,” said Drake. “If we take him back dead—which I agree would be a lot easier—we’ll just lop off his head and take that. That oughtta be good enough for proof of identification, right, Rance? A head would be easier to lug along and, if we wrapped it up good and snug in a rain slicker or some such, it wouldn’t hardly stink at all after the first couple days.”
“Now you’re just tryin’ to get my goat,” Wilbur said edgily. His expression nevertheless seemed to turn a little greenish. He cut his eyes over to Brannigan. “You wouldn’t go along with doin’ it like that, would you, Rance?”
“I dunno. It’s an interestin’ thought,” replied Brannigan. “I’ve heard tell of bounty hunters who do it that way.”
Wilbur looked on aghast, his gaze sweeping back and forth between his two comrades. Finally, Brannigan and Drake couldn’t keep straight faces any longer and they broke into a round of teasing laughter at Wilbur’s discomfort.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Wilbur groused as he pushed away his half-eaten plate of food. “I hope you two jokers are happy—you’ve ruined the best breakfast I almost had in days.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of great breakfasts ahead. I promise you that,” Brannigan said when his laughter tapered off.
“Speakin’ of what lies ahead, now something occurs to me about this outlaw marshal business,” said Drake, a serious look replacing his own laughter. “You’ve told us who he is and that he’s wanted for some mighty serious stuff down Texas way . . . but you ain’t said exactly what he did or where it was he did it.”
“That’s true,” Brannigan agreed. “But I know the answers to those things. Ain’t that enough?”
“Well, yeah. As far as it goes.” Drake scowled. “But what if something happens to you? I mean, there’s a risk to these things we’re enterin’ into, right? There always is. But what if we get to the point where we’re ready to take that marshal back for the big money and . . . well, like I said, if anything should happen to you with me and Wilbur not knowing no more details than we do now . . . that’d sort of leave us high and dry. See what I mean?”
Brannigan didn’t respond right away, instead took his time draining the rest of his coffee. His mind drifted to the old wanted poster in a pocket of his saddlebags, one of the ones issued on the Devil’s River Kid more than half a dozen years ago. Until he’d run into the marshal of Rattlesnake Wells, Brannigan had almost forgot it was there. He’d carried it all this time for no particular reason other than he’d never bothered to dig it out and throw it away. But now, like Fate, there it still was when he’d gone looking for it—his bona fides, so to speak, for when the time was right to again go after the individual the poster was meant for. There was a description, an illustration (still a close resemblance, too), and a listing of the fugitive’s crimes. Everything, in other words, anybody would need to claim the reward offered on the man now calling himself Bob Hatfield for his past deeds as Bob Hammond, alias the Devil’s River Kid. But in spite of all he’d been through with Drake and Wilbur, Brannigan still felt better—safer, maybe, was the best way of putting it—keeping the existence of the wanted poster and its details as a sort of ace up his sleeve.
When he lowered his emptied cup, Brannigan’s face had lost all trace of the amusement only recently displayed. In a flat, uncompromising tone, he said, “Uh-huh. I do see what you mean, Drake. So I’d say what else that means is you and Wilbur, for the best chance at all of us seeing that big reward, had better make damn sure nothing happens to me . . .”
CHAPTER 44
Bob rose before sunup. Since he’d pitched a cold camp the night before, there was no coffee or bacon to look forward to. After rolling his bedroll back up and stowing the rest of his gear, he breakfasted on some beef jerky and cold biscuits dug out of his war bag. He washed it down with swigs of water from his canteen. The spring morning was crisp enough up here in the low range of the Shirleys to make him wish for even a cup of the dreadful coffee they brewed at the jail. Second choice, if he’d been more of a drinking man, would have been a belt of whiskey to warm his innards. Actually, there was a flask of whiskey in his saddlebags, but he didn’t go digging for it.
By the time it was light enough to pick up Larkin’s trail again, Bob had his horse saddled and ready. He’d staked the animal where it had sufficient graze for the night as well as access to a narrow stream trickling down from the higher rocks. Before climbing into the saddle, he took time to also treat the beast to a couple handfuls of belly-warming grain.
Bob felt agitated by the fact he hadn’t slept well during the night. He’d been sore and exhausted from having spent the better part of the day in the saddle, he was cold, the ground was hard and uncomfortable, and he missed the warm curves of Consuela snuggled next to him. Adding to his agitation was the realization that these things affected him as much as they did because he’d allowed himself to get somewhat soft in the performance of his duties as marshal. Sitting behind a desk or leisurely strolling the streets of the town—even with the sporadic outbursts of trouble—weren’t the same as being out on the trail, enduring the elements. He vowed inwardly that, in the future, he’d make it a point to ride out on some kind of regular basis in order to keep himself in better trail shape.
The only good thing about being so exhausted the night before was the fact it eventually led to him falling into a deep sleep. During the time he’d lain awake, however, his mind ha
d churned busily. Coming as no surprise, there were two main things that his thoughts kept grinding on: John Larkin and the question of if he’d murdered Myron Poppe the way every sign pointed to; and Rance Brannigan and the questions of whether or not he’d recognized Bob (no matter how many times he came back around to it, Bob couldn’t convince himself that Brannigan hadn’t) and then how and when would the gunman act on it?
No answers were arrived at during the nighttime pondering and none were forthcoming in the light of the new day. In addition, now that it was evident running down Larkin wasn’t going to be as easy or quick as Bob had hoped, there was the increasingly nagging question of whether or not he was doing the right thing by spending time pursuing Larkin at all, what with the matter of the pending range war and whatever Brannigan’s role in it would be building pressure while he was away.
For the time being, he decided as he heeled his horse higher up into the Shirleys, following Larkin’s steadily more broken trail, he would adhere to an old saying of his mother’s: In for a penny, in for a pound. He’d set out and come this far, damn it, he wasn’t ready to turn back yet.
* * *
By shortly past noon, Bob reckoned he had cut Larkin’s roughly two-hour lead by half; maybe slightly more. This gave him encouragement to keep pushing on. Something else that gave him encouragement on a whole different subject was the inadvertent discovery he’d made a few hours back. In a shallow, grass-bottomed canyon that reached a ways into the Shirley foothills, he’d come within sight of dozens of cattle. Although he couldn’t afford to take time to examine them closely, he was willing to bet that at least some of them carried the Rocking W brand. There was possibly some V-Slash beef among them, too. And it was altogether likely there were other such pockets of strays who had wandered this far to escape the harsh winter—the answer to Ed Wardell’s missing cattle he was so hell-bent on believing had been rustled by Carlos Vandez. When Bob got back, he was counting on this discovery to go a long way toward soothing the range war friction he’d left behind.
Right between the Eyes Page 24
