by Max O'Hara
The girl groaned as the boot slipped over her heel. Wolf removed it from her foot. The white sock had slipped halfway off her foot, exposing her ankle and half of her foot, which was as comely as the rest of her.
“Thanks,” Ivy said, sitting up and raising her foot with the sock hanging off. “If a lady’s bare foot arouses you, you can look away.” She grinned, brashly flirtatious. “Or . . . not . . .”
Stockburn pulled the sock off the foot and dropped it to the floor. A pretty foot, indeed. He took it in both hands and inspected it thoroughly. “Where’s it hurt? Here?” He pressed his thumb and index finger around the ankle near the heal.
“Ahh . . . yep!”
“Hurts, eh?”
“Yeah. Think I might’ve sprained it. I’m gonna sue that Rose for not properly maintaining his premises!”
“I don’t know,” Wolf said, continuing to probe the pretty appendage gently. “Doesn’t look so bad to me.” There was no sign of swelling or discoloration.
“Hurts worse than it looks.”
“Must.”
“I reckon I can wait to see the sawbones tomorrow,” Ivy said, “since he’s likely drunk and cavortin’. I’ll just sit here for a minute, keep some weight off it, rest it . . . have another drink.” She reached for her glass but the way she was sitting, she couldn’t quite fetch it.
She smiled at Stockburn.
He suppressed the urge to chuckle again and gave her the glass.
“Thanks kindly.”
“Don’t mention it.”
As she tucked her upper lip over the rim of the glass, looking up at him, Wolf rose, backed up, and sank back down in his chair. Ivy lowered her glass, swallowed, and said, “You’re as big as they say, Mister Stockburn.”
“Wolf.”
“A big man with two big guns.” The girl’s eyes strayed to the Winchester leaning against the wall. “And a big Yellowboy rifle.”
“A fella in my line of work has to be ready.”
“I bet you do.” She smirked at that and took another sip of her whiskey.
“If you just came over here to bedevil me, young lady, you’re doing a right good job of it.”
“Oh.” She raised her wrist to her mouth, snickering. “Thank you.”
“But, then, I got a feeling you’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Well, I filled out early. Realized I could take my ability to turn a man’s head to my advantage.”
“And what advantage is that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Relief from boredom, I reckon. Wild Horse is growing, but it’s still a small town. Not much for a girl to do in these parts except pester the menfolk.”
“Well, I have more to do than be pestered by pretty girls with feigned injuries, Miss Ivy.” Stockburn rose to his full six-feet-four inches and glowered down at the shameless coquette. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”
“Oh, sit down! Sit down! Don’t get your neck in a hump! I just came here—call it a courtesy visit—to warn you that Miss Fancy Britches ain’t the Goody Two Shoes she’s got everyone believin’ she is. You’d best watch out for her!”
CHAPTER 9
Stockburn frowned at the pretty blonde sitting on the edge of his bed, one boot off and one boot on. He sat back down in his chair and leaned forward, one elbow on the table to his left, the other hand on his thigh. “What’re you talking about?”
“I know things. About The Princess herself. Everybody thinks she’s so pure that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”
“But you’re saying it would.”
Ivy studied Stockburn. She was obviously angry. And jealous. Wolf could tell she was thinking through her next words very thoroughly. “Like I said—I know some things. A girl who gets around as much as I do, while my pa is workin’ or drinkin’ when he’s not workin’ . . . learns things about a town. And about the people outside of the town, too.”
“Chew it up and spit it out, Ivy. What do you know?”
Ivy studied him again, her eyes narrow, hesitant. Coyly, she shook her hair back from her pretty, oval-shaped face, then glanced around the room as though she were suddenly interested in the furnishings. “That’s all I’m gonna say on that subject. I wouldn’t want you to think I was a shameless gossip.”
“No, no!”
“I do have some other information for you, though.”
Stockburn gazed back at her, one brow arched, waiting.
Ivy sank back on her elbows, crossed her bare foot over her other knee, and gave the “injured” foot an absent shake. “I know who murdered that railroad crew.” She looked down at her foot, which she was still shaking. “I have it from a good source.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here to find out, so . . . pray tell.”
She gave a glib smile, tucked her chin low, and gazed at him from beneath her brows. “What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want to be in it for you?”
She continued to smile at him, insinuatingly. “You got a woman?”
Stockburn chuckled. “I don’t want one.”
“Why not?”
“I travel too much.”
She tossed her hair back again. “You like women though, don’t you? I mean, you’re not one of those fellas . . .”
Again, Wolf laughed. “I like them well enough. When they’re a little closer to my age and their father doesn’t wear a badge.”
“My pa would like to see me married off to the right man. Age doesn’t really matter to him. Only money.”
“I doubt that he’d approve of a Wells Fargo detective’s income.”
Ivy tipped her head to one side and studied him while shaking her bare foot, which hadn’t swollen anymore since he’d first removed her boot. She was making Stockburn uncomfortable, the way she sat back against her elbows with her shirt and suspenders drawn taut against her chest, shaking her bare foot.
Some of her hair hung down close to her eyes. He had a feeling she knew the affect she was having on him, though he tried not to let on. He was sure he was not the first man who’d tried and failed in that department.
“Rufus Stoleberg,” she said finally, quietly, but with a coyote grin tugging at her mouth corners.
“Stoleberg . . .”
“The other big rancher north of town, in the foothills of the Wind Rivers.”
“I remember the name from the file,” Stockburn said. “The Stolebergs are in competition with Norman McCrae for the open range. They crowd each other.”
“Brand each other’s cattle,” Ivy said.
“I was also told that they’d been in competition for the sale of the right-of-way to the Hell’s Jaw Rail Line. Stoleberg lost out.”
“That ain’t the half of it.”
“I’m waiting.”
“McCrae hanged one of Stoleberg’s sons. Years back. When they both moved up here from Texas. Stoleberg came from south Texas. McCrae from the Panhandle. The story goes they got crossways with each other when they were both trailing their herds to Montana. The feud continues to this day. Bad blood. I mean, really bad blood!”
Stockburn pondered that. Little about the feud, aside from the two ranchers’ having competed for the sale of their land to the rail line—had been in the file. Interesting, though he warned himself to take anything this little coquette told him with a big grain of salt.
He sipped his whiskey then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, holding his glass in both hands. “Why did Norman McCrae hang Rufus Stoleberg’s son?”
“Caught him rustling Triangle beef with three of his outlaw pards.”
“That seems like pretty severe punishment.”
“Not for rustling.”
“No, but to hang the son of a neighboring rancher.”
“That’s how deep the hatred was. Is. Stoleberg was angry because McCrae claimed the better part of the graze up there. McCrae has some nice green meadows, with water in the ravines where the cows can shelter in the winter and during spring storms. Stoleberg’s land, farther east, is flatter an
d drier. And McCrae has closed off access to some of the water with barbed wire. He has armed sentries guarding that wire religiously.”
“Why would Stoleberg massacre a rail crew? They were innocent men only doing their jobs.”
“Like I said, that’s how deep the hate runs. Lots of innocent folk have gotten caught up in the McCrae/ Stoleberg feud.”
“Still . . .”
“McCrae’s lawyer, Powderhorn, worked the deal so that both him, Powderhorn and McCrae, get a percentage of the rail line’s profits. Since the geologists who surveyed this side of the Wind Rivers said there’s a whole El Dorado of gold up there—gold that’s relatively inexpensive to haul out of the rocks—there’s a nice-sized fortune to be made. That gravels Rufus Stoleberg somethin’ awful.”
“Awful enough to massacre an entire rail crew? In a mere attempt to stymie a railroad line to nettle a competing rancher?”
“The way I see it, that’s just the beginning of Stoleberg’s war against McCrae. I mean, it started long ago, before the two men even reached Wyoming. But the attack on the rail crew was the start of Stoleberg’s final push. I think there’s other stuff he’s got up his sleeve. That was just a start.”
“What other stuff?”
Ivy made a big display of yawning and tapped fingers across her open mouth. “I’ll be hanged if I ain’t sleepy all of a sudden!”
“What does Lori have to do with any of this?”
“Like I said . . .” Ivy was still yawning.
“Who did you get your information from, Miss Ivy? About Stoleberg. And Lori McCrae.”
“I wouldn’t want to get my source or sources in trouble. Besides, a big famous detective like yourself should be able to find it out easy enough, if I can.” She grinned.
“It would probably help if I wore a shirt as nicely as you do.”
“You noticed! Here I thought my charms were wasted on you, Wolf!”
“Not hardly.” Stockburn rose, yawning now himself—authentically. “Put your boot on and get out of here. I have to get at least a couple hours of sleep.”
“What if I told you more?” she asked, kicking that bare foot again and showing her teeth through another enticing grin.
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“A girl like you doesn’t blow all her ammunition in the first skirmish.”
“You know me too well!”
“I don’t think you know as much as you think you do.”
“I do so! I mean, mostly.”
“Skedaddle!”
“All right, all right. But I’ll have it all put together soon—mark my words!”
* * *
When he was alone at last, Stockburn poured himself another drink. A bigger one. He skinned out of his duds, used the chamber pot, crawled into bed, and finished the whiskey.
A second after he’d turned down his lamp, he was asleep.
It was a deep sleep in spite of the pain in his head, which the whiskey had dulled. When he woke at dawn, the pain was still there, but it didn’t go as deep as it had before. Now it was mainly on the surface of his head.
Still, it was an excuse, whether a good one or not, to begin the day with a bracer.
He dressed and sat in a chair at the table and sipped the whiskey and smoked an Indian Kid, thinking through his day’s agenda. First, he’d pay a visit to the people who’d called him out here in the first place—Jamerson Stewart and his son, Jimmy Jr, owners of the Hell’s Jaw Rail Line. Then, since he was heading north toward the McCrae Triangle Ranch, he’d ride that way with Lori then take a little side trip to investigate the scene of the massacre.
Thinking of Lori, he also considered what the little blond succubus, Ivy Russell, had hinted about her. That she wasn’t all that she appeared to be on the surface.
But, then, who was?
Stockburn knew to take Ivy with a big grain of salt. She was likely more than a little jealous of Lori McCrae’s moneyed station in life, which was understandable. Ivy was also more than a little devilish. Stockburn had found that out firsthand. Twisted ankle, his foot!
He chuckled at the wounded fawn routine, the mocking glitter in the shameless coquette’s lilac eyes. Still, he’d keep in mind what she’d told him. He’d be a fool not to chase down every lead, even every hint of a lead, including uncorroborated, probably fabricated innuendo.
He was well off the beaten path out here, a total stranger. It would take him a while to get his land legs, to be able to sift the wheat from the chaff with confidence. Right now, he was getting the unadulterated grain.
He finished the whiskey, stubbed out the Indian Kid, and headed back to the Cosmopolitan for breakfast. As could be expected, he was met with more than a few incredulous stares upon entering the place, for the blood stains on the floor were still fresh. As were memories of last night.
The window through which Kreg Hennessey’s bouncer had thrown the bungstarter had not yet been repaired. A cool morning breeze blew through the jagged break in the glass, along with the high strains of birdsong.
He swabbed the last of his ham, fried potatoes, and four fried eggs with the last of his grainy wheat toast, finished his coffee, stubbed out his second cheroot of the day, set his hat on his head, and grabbed the rifle from where he’d placed it across a corner of his table.
He headed outside. He’d fetched Smoke from the feed barn and tied the smoky gray stallion to the hitchrack fronting the restaurant.
Now he glanced around at the lightening street, which was a little busier than before he’d entered the restaurant though not by much, it still being before eight, then slid the rifle into its scabbard and pulled himself into the leather. As he did, he noticed a man standing back against the side of the Cosmopolitan’s front wall, near the broken window.
The man wore a shabby suit coat over gold-and-brown checked vest and baggy broadcloth trousers. He wore a high-crowned black Stetson that had apparently weathered the abuse of many high-country storms and possibly crows pecking on its brim.
He himself looked a little like a crow, with narrow eyes, long nose, and sharp, upturned chin. Three days’ worth of beard stubble darkened his pale features.
He wore two pistols on his hips. They were easy to see, for the man had tucked the flaps of his coat back behind the handles.
He stood leaning back against the wall, the sole of one boot planted against the wall as well, arms crossed on his chest, staring blankly but insinuatingly at Stockburn, a weed stem drooping from between his thin lips.
Stockburn had been about to turn Smoke out into the street but he rendered the maneuver stillborn and frowned at the man eyeing him darkly from beneath the ragged brim of his black hat. “Can I help you?”
The man said, “Nah. Just got a message from Mister Hennessey’s all.”
“All right.”
“He said to tell you good morning.”
“Good morning?”
“Yep. Said to tell you good morning.” The man grinned, the weed stem slipping out from between his lips to flutter to and fro on the breeze as it fell to the manure-crusted boardwalk beneath the crow-faced man’s boots. “Said to tell you good morning and to have a nice day.”
He held his mocking smile on Stockburn.
“He did, did he?”
“Yessir, he sure did.”
“Hmm.” Stockburn considered the message, nodding. He swung down from the saddle and dropped Smoke’s reins. As he stepped around the hitchrail and mounted the boardwalk fronting the Cosmopolitan, the stranger’s smile faded slowly from his lips and a look of incredulity entered his small, dark eyes.
Stockburn stood before the man, staring into the man’s eyes. He gave a phony smile as he said, “Wasn’t that nice of him?”
The man smiled again, but this time it wasn’t as confident and jeering as it was before. It seemed a little nervous, tentative. “Why . . . it sure was.” He chuckled.
“What’s your name, son?”
The man frowned.
“Huh?”
“What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“What’s your name?” Stockburn asked, louder.
“Cove. Stanley Cove.”
“I tell you what, Stanley Cove. Let’s go over to the Wind River so I can return the friendly gesture.”
Again, the man frowned. “Huh?”
“Get moving!” Stockburn gave the man a hard shove to the left, toward the Wind River, which sat on the opposite side of the side street from the Cosmopolitan.
“Hey, get your damn hands off’n me!”
As Cove tried to swing toward him, Stockburn gave him another hard shove. Cove went stumbling into the street, nearly falling.
“Damn you—what the hell you think you’re doin’?” Cove said, getting his boots beneath him once more and trying to swing toward Stockburn again, raising his right fist.
Stockburn stepped into the man, gave him another hard shove. As Cove went stumbling toward the big, ornate, clapboard building on the other side of the street, Stockburn kicked him in the ass.
Cove gave an indignant cry and went flying, arms and legs pinwheeling, up onto the boardwalk, tripping over the edge of the walk then falling on top of it and sliding up against the Wind River’s two stout, brass-handled doors.
“Damn you to hell!” Cove cried, slapping leather and whipping out one of his walnut-gripped six-shooters.
As he angled the gun up toward Stockburn, Wolf stepped onto the boardwalk and drove the toe of his right boot against Cove’s wrist. Cove screamed as the six-shooter flew up out of his hand to bounce off the doors then tumble back onto the boardwalk with a heavy thud, spinning off the boardwalk and into the street.
Cove gritted his teeth and clutched his injured wrist with his other hand. “Oh, you black-hearted cuss—you broke my wrist!”
Stockburn crouched to jerk the man up by his arms. He reached his hand around the man to pull open one of the two heavy doors then kicked the man inside. Cove gave another scream as he flew down the four shallow steps to the floor of the big main casino and saloon.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” yelled a big man behind the large, ornate, horseshoe bar to the right. He’d looked up from reading the newspaper spread on the polished oak bar before him.
