“Did I need to?”
“No, but I figured you wore a shiny blue uniform.”
“You’re wondering why I’d hire a former reb?”
“Lot’s of folks are prejudiced.” Luther shrugged, taking another forkful of eggs.
“Including the chief marshal?”
“I said, lots of folks.”
“I needed a man for the badge.”
“Good enough.”
“And, Luther, those two other marshals served under me during the war. I knew them well. But you won’t be any less a member of this force than them. We’ve got a big job to do together. It’s a new war and a tough one. It’s either us or lawlessness will prevail.”
Luther slumped back in the chair and slowly nodded. He liked this man who didn’t mince words. Major Gerald Bowen might be all right to work for. He felt an edge of excitement and anticipation. The territorial marshal job? Yes. It would be all right.
5
Fluffy clouds gathered along the towering rim. It would rain somewhere in Christopher Basin by mid-afternoon. Matt pushed the buggy horse in a long trot on the Fortune road through the pines. Dropping down the grade, he could see the open meadow country. A horse and rider waited ahead. He recognized Charboneau’s big gray horse. The man appeared to be by himself.
What was he up to? Drawing closer, he noticed the gray’s shoulders were dark with sweat.
“Good morning,” Matt offered as he reined up his single footed horse. The squat man in the saddle removed his Stetson and wiped his face on his sleeve.
“That sheriff he sent two deputies up here.”
“To count cows and up our taxes?” Matt grinned to make a joke of the matter.
“No. They’re asking lots of questions about those three.” Charboneau’s eyes darkened and he frowned. “I mean they’re asking tough questions.”
“Let them. What can they learn?”
Charboneau shrugged his thick shoulders. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it none.”
Matt waved away his concern. “They can’t prove anything.”
“Unless someone talks.”
“No one is that foolish.”
“You better be sure to button Porter’s lip. I think he might explode about it.” The hard glare in the man’s dark eyes told Matt enough.
Charboneau was upset about Reed Porter’s mouth. Matt considered the man’s words for a moment. “You know anything about Reed doing any loose talking?”
“No, but I think we better gawdamn sure watch him. He ain’t very strong. They press him, he might talk.” Charboneau shook his head ruefully.
Matt nodded. He understood the man’s concern. He would have to do something about Reed Porter to keep him quiet. They all had way too much at stake to let one of their numbers talk.
“Where are those deputies now?” he asked.
“Riding all over. I ain’t seen them since yesterday.”
“Who are they?”
“Hank Killiam and Wylie something, I can’t recall his last name.” Charboneau’s gelding stomped his hind foot at a fly.
“Don’t know them.”
“Hey, they’re tough enough. Not some cow counters like he usually sends.”
“In a week or two they’ll lose interest,” Matt said to settle some of the man’s concern.
Charboneau ran the web of his hand over his drooping mustache. “I sure hope you’re right, but the word is out that the Dikes family is offering a big reward for the arrest of his hangmen.”
“Hasn’t ever been anyone tried for that in the territory yet.”
“Listen, Matt, I don’t want to even be near a courtroom.”
“You won’t. I’ll handle Reed Porter.”
“You better. See ya.” Charboneau turned his gray and headed north across the meadow. Matt watched him disappear into the trees, then he flicked the reins at the bay. Charboneau acted much more concerned than he’d expected. Up until that moment, he considered the man a safe bet, but if those lawmen upset the Frenchman that badly, they could push Porter off the brink. What next? He had planned to have his lawyer, Grayson Bond, start the paperwork on procuring Dikes’s place. That better wait.
Matt reached Fortune at noon. His plans were to have a drink first, then take some lunch. He drove the bay past the weed-crowded shipping pens and up the single street lined with houses, false-front buildings, and the two-story hotel.
The town’s farrier was shoeing a horse in front of the livery when Matt passed. Several ladies graced the boardwalks and porches. Matt tipped his hat to them and reined the bay around the side into the shade of the Texas Saloon.
He hitched the horse and paused on the boardwalk. A small boy with a bucket of foaming beer parted the doors. He raised his blue eyes to look up, then said, “Got to get this to them workers,” in an Irish brogue that brought a smile to Matt’s lips. He watched the bare feet churn up dust off the hard-packed street as the boy flew away to wet down his charges.
“What’ll it be, Mr. McKean?” the barkeep, Earl Duffy, asked, making a swipe with his rag to polish the surface.
“Double rye,” he said, looking around. A few cowboys sat at a back table playing cards. They must be out of work to be in there that time of day. None of his business. He certainly didn’t need any more men on his payroll.
Matt paid Earl two bits for the drink and in two tosses had the dust-cutting whiskey down his throat. The sharp liquor also warmed his ears and settled his stomach.
“Got lunch out,” Earl offered, meaning the food on the sideboard. Boiled eggs. Crackers. Pickled herring and cheese.
“No, thanks. Where’s Lincoln today?”
“Took the day off. Business is slow in midweek.”
Matt hated the fact that the bar’s owner wasn’t there. Lincoln Jeffries knew everything that went on in the basin. Matt had hoped to learn more about those nosey deputies from him. The lawmen would be by sooner or later to question him, since he was the leader of the party that cut them down.
Strange, they hadn’t been by his place so far. He shrugged off the notion. Lots of difference between being a suspect and proving the fact. What could they find out? Nothing. He thanked Earl, said he’d be back, and went across the street to Lonigan’s Cafe.
Matt sat at the counter. Farnam Brown, the long drink of water who recently married the cafe owner, Mary Sue, stood with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth and brought him a stained white cup full of coffee.
“We got pot roast today,” Farnam offered.
Matt agreed that would do, familiar with Mary Sue’s tasty dishes. He cradled the cup in his hand and watched the former ranch hand’s slender figure snake his way to the back for the order. Lonigan died a few years earlier of a busted appendix. Farnum hung around until Mary Sue said yes, then he quit cowboying to help her run the place. Most folks thought her cooking would fatten him, but he must have tapeworms, Matt decided, because Farnam was still the skinniest guy in the basin At six four, he made a string bean.
“How’s the cattle price holding?” Farnam asked when he came back from the kitchen and used the toothpick to explore his back molars.
“Ain’t certain. Last I heard, you could contract some for last year’s price. You into cattle?” Matt asked.
“Yeah, I got a few head.”
“You register a brand?”
“Bought one, Seven Y.”
“I ain’t seen it.”
“Aw, all I got is half a dozen head of sorry heifers that I got down in the valley. But I aim to have me a herd of my own someday.” Farnam bobbed his head as if in deep thought about the matter of his future livestock empire.
Why, Matt wondered, did every old ranny want to be in the ranching business? Burned him to a crisp, but he shielded his feelings.
“How much’s that Teddy Dikes’s place worth?” Farnam asked.
“I ain’t got half an idea. Not much.” The notion of Farnam’s interest in Dikes’s outfit formed a ball in the pit of Matt’s stomach. On
ly days before he thought the whole thing would work out smooth and in a few months he would have control of the place. Now Farnam wanted in on the deal.
“Figured that it should sell cheap.” Farnam took the toothpick from his mouth. “That way, maybe, Mary Sue and I could afford it for a starter. We’ve got some money saved.”
Matt felt grateful for the sight of the buxom Mary Sue as she brought him the plateful of meat, potatoes, carrots, onions, and plenty of her sourdough bread. Gave him an excuse to shut up about the matter.
“You all right, Matthew?” she asked.
“Fine, Mary Sue. Better now that I have some of your good food.”
“Need more, you just send the plate back.” She gave him a friendly smile.
“Aw, this ought to fill me fuller than I need to be.”
“Good to see you,” she said, and went back in the kitchen.
“Keep your ears open about that place for me,” Farnam said.
“I will,” Matt promised. “I sure will.” Matter of fact, he planned to see Grayson Bond, his attorney, when he finished his lunch. No time to be respectful about buying Dikes’s place, or some other rat would pop into the vacant nest.
Grayson’s cubbyhole was behind the assayers’ and claims’ office. The lawyer looked up from his notes when Matt walked through the door. Coatless, tie loose, with his sleeves rolled up, Grayson appeared busy. He acknowledged Matt, then turned back to the papers before him.
“Be a minute.” Grayson held up his left hand. “Take a chair.”
“Must be important, you’re that engrossed.”
“Point of law. Searching for an answer.” At last, Grayson made the effort of tearing himself away from the page and looked across at Matt.
“What’s happening with you?”
Matt considered their privacy, then leaned forward. “I want you to quietly get hold of Dikes’s place for me.”
“The boy that got lynched? His place?”
“Yes, that rustler that they are all crying over. Listen, Grayson, I intended to let the ruckus die down, then contact his parents or buy it at a sheriff’s sale, but there is some kind of damn land rush up here.”
“Yes, there is.”
Matt frowned. “Who else wants it?”
“Some cattle company out of the valley contacted me yesterday.”
“Who the hell are they?” All he needed was more competition for the short grass and water.
Grayson went through his papers. “I never heard of them. Here it is. Flat Iron Cattle Company.” He held up the stationery and studied the signature. “John O’Malley, president.”
“They’re planning on moving cattle in the basin?”
Grayson nodded. “More than likely. They’re probably looking for a headquarters to set up in. How bad do you want that place?”
“Get a price, I’ll see if I can swing it. We damn sure don’t need some big cattle company in here, too.”
“I’ll do that. May have to go to Prescott to get all the details.”
“Whatever.” Matt rose; his stomach churned over his latest discovery. “And let me know what you can find out about this Flat Iron outfit.”
“I will,” Grayson agreed as he stood up. They shook hands and Matt left the office. He wanted to go back to the saloon and drink a tub of whiskey.
For a long moment, he stood outside the office in the warm afternoon sun and considered his next move. The distant roll of thunder made him look up at the encroaching dark clouds. In a few minutes, there would be a monsoon shower, like every summer afternoon somewhere along the Mongollon Rim. Better find himself a dry place for a while. The upsetting news about another big outfit moving in his range niggled at him all the way to the porch of the mercantile.
Then he recalled that Jakes had told him he needed horseshoe nails.
Rain drummed on the tin roof of the mercantile. Robert, the son of the proprietor, weighted him out ten pounds of nails and put them in an empty keg. Robert then asked if he needed anything else.
“No, put it on my bill. I guess as hard as it’s raining, I need to stay in here until it passes.” Matt indicated the roar of the downpour on the roof over them.
“Sounds like a real one,” the boy said, and finished marking down the sale. He held the receipt out for Matt’s inspection.
“Your dad gone today?” Matt asked as he approved it with a nod.
“Gone to Flag to get new stock.”
“He may be getting wet.”
“We can always use rain in Arizona, so I guess it won’t hurt him.”
“How right you are,” Matt agreed with the youth’s wisdom, and went to the front door to watch the slashing storm. It spilled off the porch eaves in sheets. He hoped some of this would fall up on his range and not in some small circle around the town.
He needed a meeting with the others. What could they do about a big outfit moving into their country? It was all public domain, belonged to the government; all they had were the small claims to their places. Still the unwritten law was … he paused. It belonged to the users. If that Flat Iron moved in, they’d be users, too.
A bright flash of lightning blinded him for a second. Thunder boomed overhead close enough to make him duck. He saw a heckuva wreck coming if that new outfit pushed more stock in this range. Better hold a Basin Stockman’s meeting. He would need the others. Deep in his concerns over the latest turn of events, he absently scratched an itch behind his right ear.
What could they do? More thunder boomed close by.
Two men in yellow raincoats rode up, dismounted, hitched their rain-slicked horses, and ran onto the porch.
“Whew,” the shorter man said, looking back at the downpour from the safety of the porch.
“Afternoon,” the younger and taller one said to Matt. His blue eyes looked him over critically. Matt decided they were the lawmen. “Name’s Hank Killiam. This is Wylie Green. We’re Sheriff Rupp’s deputies. You’re Matt McKean, right?”
“Yes, I heard you boys were up here.”
“You were with the party cut them down, Mr. McKean?” Killiam asked.
“Yes, I was there that night. Not a nice scene.”
Killiam nodded, then used his thumb to force his sodden hat up higher. “You have any idea who did it?”
“Vigilantes, I guess.”
“Vigilantes have names behind those masks,” Green cut in.
“I wasn’t there for that. I did my duty as a citizen and helped cut them down.” Blinding lightning flashed over the buildings across the street and thunder crashed on top of them.
“Oh, we never said you were there for the lynching.”
Matt frowned at the younger man. “I wasn’t there.”
“Mr. McKean, you’re a big man in the basin. Have lots of cattle wearing your brand. You ever know of any rustling by those three men?”
“There’s been plenty of rustling up here. But no, I never saw any of them rustling my cattle.”
“You see any blotted brands?”
“A few.”
“Guess you think this lynching will end the rustling in the basin?” Killiam asked.
“The lynching?” Matt frowned at the pair as they unbuttoned their slickers before him.
“Right. Those three weren’t hung for picking their noses. It’s easier to sleep nights with them rustlers gone, isn’t it?”
“I don’t hold with taking the law into your own hands.”
“Mr. McKean, some folks in this country did that,” Green said with a hard set to his eyes. “Can you furnish us any names?”
“I told you, I was at the dance when word came they were hung. I did my—”
“Civic duty,” Killiam butted in. “We’ve talked to lots of folks done that, too. You know, without any proof that them three rustled any cattle in this country, it surely makes their deaths out-and-out murder.”
“I guess that’s your jobs to prove it,” Matt said. An edge of impatience creeping in his voice that he found hard to restrain.
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Killiam nodded. “That’s right. You don’t have any idea who hung them?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Damn strange to me,” Green said with a hard frown. “Three men were hung in broad daylight, and ain’t one sumbitch knows a living thing about it in the entire country.”
The clouds began breaking up. Sunshine glistened on the wet pine needles. Thunder moved over the ridge. The last drips off the eaves splashed into the puddles on the ground. A rig coming down the street sliced though the watery slop.
“Tell Sheriff Rupp that I send my greetings,” Matt said. They needed to know he had contributed money to the man’s last campaign. Those two acted a little out of line to his notion.
“We will, Mr. McKean. And if you think of anything else about the lynching, let us know. We’ll be stationed up here at Fortune for some time,” Killiam said.
Matt left the porch. He wanted a drink, and bad. He turned back at Robert’s calling after him, “Don’t forget your horseshoe nails, Mr. McKean.”
“I won’t,” he promised as the wetness soon soaked through his thin, handmade boots crossing back to the Texas. He glanced down in disapproval at the brown mud on them. More concerned about his answers to the pair than his footwear, he tried to reappraise the interview. Had he given them anything to go on? No. But those two were tough enough. They might get someone to talk. Let something slip, and they would pounce on it like a hawk on a mouse.
The best example of someone with a weakness would be Reed Porter. How had he done with them? No telling, but so far the two lawmen probably knew very little. He needed to keep it that way.
6
“So you’re just up and leaving me?” Tillie McQuire asked with her hands on her hips.
“I could probably send you money in six months to come out there.” He gave her a pained glance over his shoulder. Blocking the light from the window, he appeared engrossed with the view through the dirty glass. “The first part of my new job is undercover work. I wouldn’t have a way to meet with you.”
“Undercover?” What does that mean? Tillie wondered. Sometimes he made little sense.
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